Warm Milk
by YoDrDeath
Summary: Maura helps Jane with intimacy after Hoyt. Slow burn rizzles. Season 1-2 based. M for sex, warning for Ptsd / sexual trauma.
1. Friends

**VERY IMPORTANT :**

 **When I first saw See One Teach One Do One I thought they made it open to interpretation the first time Hoyt captured Jane, that he might have raped her. For the background of this story, suppose he did. I'm telling you that here because I don't want to write about it, this isn't 'a rape story', but still trigger warning for eventual ptsd/ Hoyt/ sexual assault related trauma in later chapter(s).**

* * *

"Hey, Doc. You seen Rizzoli?"

The bald head of Detective Crowe has appeared in your morgue doorway.

Your neck prickles while you consider the question.

You don't know any of the homicide detectives personally, but have now observed their interactions at eleven crime scenes.

Detective Rizzoli's demeanor toward Detective Crowe is harsh, competitive, strictly business. Her voice is always hard. When he's not present, she calls him a dick or an asswipe. She doesn't like him.

You don't either.

His behavior is similar, only laced with the faintest flavor of sexual harassment that some men manage to perfect; designed to get under her skin, but get her ridiculed for oversensitivity if she were to report it. When she's not present, he calls her a bitch or deliberately mispronounces her name 'Lizzoli'. Disrespec- or... Or. No, he's saying _Lezz_ oli. Like lesbian.

You just got that.

The man's head is still in your doorway, only now his brows are raised impatiently, and you fear they have been for some time.

"Yes," you nod. "She was here checking on the autopsy a few minutes ago. I'm not sure where she intended to go after that."

With an annoyed grunt, he disappears.

Relief floods your chest, although you aren't sure exactly why you felt any obligation to venture towards the far edge of honesty. Perhaps you felt you should support one of very few other women in your workplace. Perhaps a feeling that, after the horrors this woman has been through in her recent past, she could use a little break.

Next door to the morgue is your office, and in your office is your couch, and on your couch sits the missing detective, who is asleep.

Pleasantries excepted, this was the fourth time you'd ever spoken. You'd been explaining the significance of the ulnar fractures you discovered in yesterday's autopsy when you noticed her eyes were closed. After a moment of puzzling, you'd elected to close all the blinds in the room and vacate it, allowing her the rest she apparently needed.

Twenty minutes later, Detective Korsak appears and asks the same question.

Korsak and Rizzoli's interactions are mutually relaxed and familiar. They sometimes joke or smile. Similar to the way she is with Detective Frost, only Korsak's age seems to earn a fatherly nuance.

He has a kind face. He will know how to deal with this without embarrassing her.

You point gently toward your office.

* * *

You've been collecting facts about your newest friend like you're going to write a report about her, just for fun. Like the time your teacher assigned you Mercury, so you did Mercury and turned that in but also did Venus just for yourself, because you were interested.

It's not like you haven't had friends before. You had a best friend, but best like by process of elimination, not Best like how other people say it.

Even though you can't quite put your finger on anything she's done yet to merit the title, Jane might be what a Best is, or will be if things keep going how they're going.

Jane is intelligent, beautiful, funny, confident, cool, and effortlessly social, the way you only wish you could be. She is the leader of any pack, whether composed of family or colleagues. She projects strength. She is excellent at her job.

Jane is under-rested and underweight, and can be waspish when stressed. She doesn't like it if you touch her hands without her seeing you coming first, or if you acknowledge that she flinched. Sometimes she holds and rubs them like they hurt. She doesn't seem to like when you acknowledge that either.

She doesn't explain the scars to you, because the evening news already told everyone everything over three years ago, which you are sure she resents judging by how her lip curls when she sees reporters at her crime scenes. And in fact it makes you feel a little guilty, like you personally violated her privacy and are one of millions of voyeurs to the worst moment of her life, and you wish you could give her the dignity of saying you didn't already know and letting her decide whether to tell you about it.

She told you directly that she doesn't care if you look at her scars, but forbade you to tell her you're sorry, or that she is brave. It's a good thing she warned you, because those are both things you would've said.

And she asks _you_ things, but not things you expect. Not real things. Not like who is your favorite artist or what are your goals for the next ten years. But stupid things, and yet she presses you for real answers. Like would you rather fight a zombie or a vampire (you lack extensive knowledge on the supposed qualities of either, but if a zombie is basically an ambulatory corpse, you'd be well equipped to handle that), or do you dare her to drink that entire bottle of Tabasco (no?).

First, you frankly think that's a little silly and avoidant and that she must not care enough about you to ask real things. But after a while you realize that part of this woman's job is questioning people and finding out things about them that they don't want to tell, and that maybe these are not just pointless topics to fill time, but little personality tests. That maybe this way she learns more about what you're _like_ , without you realizing it, than if she requested facts and measurements for a report like you do.

This Jane Rizzoli is a clever woman, and you've never felt so special to be asked such stupid questions.


	2. Jane's Apartment

You already know she considers you a friend, but the first time she invites you to her apartment feels like a confirmation. She says she wants to show you something, and leaves you sitting on her couch alone.

The space is far from palatial, but it's decorated more tastefully than you expected. Less utilitarian. She has a piano. Lots of sports memorabilia. Family photos. Some framed prints of paintings. Magnets on the refrigerator. Not entirely tidy.

The glint of metal catches your eye first, and for a fraction of a second you wonder whether you should be concerned. Of course not. She carries a gun every day and you aren't concerned about that. Jane has sat next to you, holding a scalpel flat on her palm and looking down at it.

"I didn't expect you to have one of those," is the most neutral thing you can think of to say. What you mean is that you're impressed she's allowing it to touch the scar on her palm.

"You know you can just buy these off Amazon? Anybody can get 'em. You don't have to be a doctor."

"That is true."

"After I got cleared for duty. My first case back..." she begins, and you double your focus because this is the first time she's telling you Something, and you want to take such good care of it.

"I went down to the morgue. It was Pike then," - you share a distasteful glance - "and it was the first time I saw a scalpel. Not a big picture of one with an evidence ruler next to it, and not a therapist holding one to make sure I wouldn't flip at the sight, but somebody actually using one."

You realize she's telling you this because this morning, she knew you noticed how her eyes were tracking your scalpel and not what its incision had revealed. And she knew that that you knew not to ask.

"And I felt weird but I thought I could handle it til I realized I couldn't hear anything. My ears were ringing so loud and I realized I was gonna pass out. I got out of there. Pike's takeaway? Thought I was intimidated by him." She rolls her eyes.

"Oh, no," you balance a chuckle on top of your sympathy.

"Yeah. So I had to get over _that_ shit, pronto." Jane spins the blade between her fingers with a practiced fluidity. Her level of dexterity is impressive, given the mass of scar tissue in the center of her palm. There must have been severe damage to at least one tendon per hand, and months of physical therapy.

"I see that you have."

Jane shimmies off the couch and kneels at the coffee table. She places one hand flat against the wood and, to your horror, begins to jab the scalpel's tip in the spaces between her spread fingers.

"What are- !" you gasp, jutting forward. "Don't _do_ that!"

"What, you never heard of five finger fillet? I'm good at it," Jane promises, only speeding up.

"It's dangerous! You coul-"

Only then does Jane stop, giving you a challenging look. Daring you to enumerate any dangers she hasn't already experienced, and you know you had better not.

"Alright, but I get it, okay? Please don't do it anymore. It makes me very uncomfortable."

"Fine." Jane sits back on her heels, then reconsiders. She pinches the point of the scalpel and throws it across the room, where it strikes lengthwise against the darts target and clatters to the floor, making you flinch.

"Shit!" she laughs, going to retrieve it. "That was supposed to look cool. I can get a bullseye every time when nobody's here."

"I believe you!" you plead, convinced by the numerous nicks in the target, and in the wall's paint surrounding it. "It was very cool. Just, please." But you are laughing, because she is. And because she was trying to do something to impress you.

Jane drops the scalpel onto the coffee table and sits back down next to you, propping a foot on the edge of it and yawning.

"What was it?" you ask, hoping the topic has not sealed back up yet. "Today, I mean."

"Blood," she answers calmly, but without looking at you. "Blood's okay. Scalpel's okay. Scalpel plus bleeding.. is harder."

She had seen you make the first incisions today, and the body had been a fresh one. Even newly dead bodies don't bleed quite like live ones, but still, that was to be expected. Had she never seen you begin an autopsy before? Come to think of it, she tends to arrive towards the end. Maybe this is intentional.

"I see." Watching autopsies isn't part of her job. Technically, she never even needs to come to your office - you put everything in your reports. She could have left. You wonder why she stayed for this one. Maybe she was testing herself. "Well. If that's something you'd like to work on.. I'd be happy to try to help."

"Like exposure therapy."

"Exactly." You're pleased she knows what that is, but of course she does.

A silence passes which you decide to consider a comfortable one.

"The most important-..." you stop. And whisper. "... Jane?"

With her eyes closed, and the slight frown which she wears almost all the time relaxed, the detective looks a little younger.

For the third time, she has fallen asleep in your presence.

Protocol for this situation escapes you, and you look around awkwardly. The other two times, you had left - but those times had been in your space, not hers. Not a space you were invited to.

Would it be insulting if she woke up later and found her guest gone? Well, she wouldn't want you to just stay and _watch_ her.

It would be better to leave a note.

You rise from the couch and look for a pen and paper on her desk. But what would the note say?

 _Jane,_

That's the only part you're sure about.

But then she stirs slightly and you're relieved that maybe you don't have to write anything.

"So how long have..." she addresses the space that you recently occupied, and then her head darts toward the door.

"Oh, I'm over h-"

"FUCK!" Jane shouts, jerking in her seat and straightening her leg instantly, shoving the coffee table a foot back with a loud scrape before whirling around, grabbing at her thigh for a gun that isn't there. "Shit! What are- ?"

"I'm sorry!" you gasp.

"The fuck!?"

"I'm sorry! You were asleep-"

Jane claps a hand to her chest. "Don't surprise me like that... s _hit._ "

"Please forgive me," you beg again. "You fell asleep... I didn't know if I should leave.. I was going to write a note."

Jane huffs loudly, plopping back into her seat.

Your heart is pounding. You hope you haven't damaged your friendship. You try to find out.

"So... for future reference... would you prefer I just left?"

"You do what you want," Jane replies, folding her arms as if she is calm, although her voice sounds like she has just run a short distance. "If you do leave, wake me up so I can lock the door."

"I will," you promise. "Um. Jane..?"

"What."

"Do you ever experience sleep paralysis? Muscle weakness?"

"No...? Why?"

"I was beginning to wonder if you might have symptoms of narcolepsy."

Jane puzzles for a moment and then closes her eyes with a smirk. You think her face is particularly nice when it's doing that.

"Believe it or not, this normally never happens to me."

"Falling asleep during the day?"

"Or night."

"Oh, insomia? Do you have nightmares?" The question has already fallen out of your mouth by the time you realize how much you should not ask it.

Jane's jaw tenses but, to your relief, she doesn't avoid the question.

"Not like I used to. I just.. got rusty at sleeping." She leans forward and grabs a mug from the table which was already there when you came in, peers cautiously inside it, and takes a sip. "Can't have nightmares if you don't sleep," she taps her temple, winking with a false humor that makes you suddenly very sad.

And for half a second, you forget Jane is that unapproachably social and cool sort of person you could never be, and instead you glimpse her as one who might be surrounded with people but profoundly alone. Your failure to force a smile condenses into an awkward cloud between the two of you, and she seems to sense something has gotten away from her.

"Don't know what it is about you, though," she adds, crossing her booted feet on the table. "You're like a glass of warm milk."

She has made it clear before that your choices of conversational topics aren't always ones she finds fascinating. You'd be hurt if you weren't so used to it.

"You're far from the first person I've ever bored, but I admit you are the first I've ever bored to sleep."

Jane's eyes move to study you for a moment, and then return to wherever else they had been.

"Not what I meant."

She is smiling a certain little smile, and you don't know what it _does_ mean.

This is one of those moments where you feel at a disadvantage.

Reading social cues has never been your strong suit. You learned to be a good conversationalist and how to mix gracefully at social functions, especially formal ones where everyone followed a certain script. But real conversations consist of two languages being spoken concurrently - a verbal one, and a silent one woven into it, one made of inferences and body language. No matter how much you study that language you often feel like a foreigner, lagging a step behind for frantically consulting a translation dictionary under the table.

Jane is so fluent that she's always a step ahead of even the conversation itself. As far as you're concerned, she's able to practice telepathy in an interrogation room.

In your youth, you'd been jealous of people like that, but... one must be able to admire talents in others without feeling the need to possess those talents oneself. That was the the way you'd overheard your cello instructor put it to your mother after a year of lessons. Its music was such a deep and beautiful sound, at once haunting and comforting.

You hate to have to ask her for more information, but if you don't, this will simply end without your having learned anything.

"No?"

That smile again. Is it at you? You hope you hadn't sounded too hopeful.

"Warm milk isn't boring, Maura. It's comforting."

"Oh." This is all an analogy. You are the milk. You are comforting. Your presence is comforting to her.

You have a friend who suffers from insomnia and probably PTSD and your presence is comforting enough to her that it helps her sleep.

You own a bracelet with forty-six diamonds on it that you value less than this.

"How many hours of sleep did you get last night?"

"I'unno," she shrugs. "Three?"

Inadequate.

There's a bookshelf. You choose one and settle at the far end of the couch, opening it on your lap.

You measure several minutes and then ease a glance over to Jane, and when you do, you're between 20 to 30 percent certain that her eyes have only just shut very quickly. When she begins to snore softly a little while later, you're more convinced.

Her face is a very pleasing arrangement of features, which you should not be taking this opportunity to look at.

The book is about sports records.


	3. Are we having a sleepover, or

You've found a number of flimsy reasons now to be idle in Jane's apartment for at least a few hours at a time. It's about time you invited her to your house.

Then Charles Hoyt escapes custody, and so you can't _invite_ her over, because it would look like you think she is afraid. And you do, because she is, but she hates that. So you don't invite her in words.

But you make sure she happens to know that you're awake and unoccupied past the time you'd normally be in bed, and you strongly suspect your doorbell is going to ring. And if it does, you're going to offer her the guest room, which contains one bed, and you're going to get on that bed with her without asking, and if she doesn't protest, that's where you'll sleep for the night.

All of this happens.

It takes her much longer to fall asleep this time, but once she does, you dissect that one comment she'd made for the next seventy minutes.

 _Are_ you having a sleepover? A sleepover means spending a night away from home, especially in the context of a party for children spending a night at a friend's house. Jane considers you a friend. So despite your adulthood, and the fact that this was certainly isn't a party, this does loosely fit as a sleepover.

 _Are_ you attracted to her? Yes.

You love your friend's mind, but that mind just so happens to reside in a very aesthetically pleasing body.

 _Is_ this your way of telling her? Well, do you _want_ to tell her? Well, is it mutual?

Physiological signs of sexual arousal have not been observed. Rumors and slurs are inadmissible; Jane may not be very traditionally feminine in some regards, which is probably what attracts those rumors, but you have no real evidence that she's anything but heterosexual. All of the people she has openly discussed an attraction to, or romantic history with, have been male. No unreported signs of attraction to women, specifically to you, have been observed.

It's very unlikely to be mutual.

You've never pursued, expected, hoped for, or even desired sexual contact with Jane; you have no interest in sexual contact with people who have no interest in sexual contact with you. You're an attractive and accomplished woman yourself, and quite frankly, you've never been left wanting for interested parties. But if Jane _were_ interested and an appropriate circumstance were to present itself, you would almost definitely be open to it.

Past experiences suggest that making sexual attraction known to a friend whose feelings are not mutual, might yield an outcome detrimental to that friendship. Even when it was made clear that no desire was harbored for that attraction to be acted upon.

So, although you've already been candid with her about your bisexual leanings, there seems no good reason to bring this to her attention.

So. No. You _aren't_ in bed with her because you're attracted to her. So, of the two options, this is definitely the sleepover.

But why would Jane ask _your_ intent when _she_ was the one who initiated this activity?

She had laughed when she said it. It was a joke. Maybe it wasn't meant as a real question.

People do that sometimes.

You close your eyes.

* * *

Detective Frost is the one who calls you.

The apprentice is dead. Hoyt, you're the tiniest bit surprised, isn't. He's alive and back in custody. You respect Jane's professionalism. You won't tell her that.

You hear that he did happen to get shot in both hands, though, which is.. curious. You won't ask her about that.

At her apartment you find her dirty and singed and bandaged, exhausted yet full of adrenaline. She wants to go get a drink, so you follow her to your car; she walks right past it, so you follow her.

She rambles, but not about whatever just happened. About Korsak's animal collection. About her first day as a police officer. About Agent Dean, who's clearly pursuing her and whom she's clearly dodging, despite clearly liking him. You decide not to ask too much about that, either.

Upon completing your third trip around the block, you ask if she can wait for you to change out of your heels if she wants to go again. She seems surprised to realize you've been walking at all.

Finally, you go to her bed and climb in as if it's your own, and she follows you.

Her sleep is scant and fitful, and you aren't surprised when there are nightmares.

You sit up in bed with her and guide her through breathing exercises and wipe away her sweat with a cold washcloth. You remind her what she's done. That he's locked up and she has nothing to fear from him. That she kicked his ass. You give it a little oomph. That she kicked his _fucking_ ass.

That makes her laugh a little.

You ask if she could sleep if you kept the light on, and she points out that it's dawn.

* * *

Jane silences her ringing phone with a groan and banishes it to the far end of the table alongside her grease-stained burger basket.

"Your mother?"

"She's been winding up to pitch some son of some friend to me. I know that's what this is," she grimaces, waving a hand over her phone like it's a toxic spill she didn't want to touch.

"She's trying to set you up on blind dates?" your brows climb up your forehead.

"She's the official self-appointed watcher of my biological clock."

Angela Rizzoli is a warm, loud, and excitable woman who always means well, but could stand to learn a bit more about boundaries. You've seen her make references to future holiday plans involving grandchildren who do not currently exist, and you've seen how it makes Jane disappear just a little further into herself.

Every time you've spoken to her without Jane present, she's taken you aside and asked if she is dating at all. Asked if you knew any men who would be good to her. Said how much she wants to see her daughter happy and healed.

You had struggled to balance your answer - that privately, you'd like to see Jane happy in a healthy relationship too, but only if _Jane_ wants that. That Jane can't be blamed for being less than eager, after what she's been through. That a relationship would not be a panacea for all of Jane's problems, real and perceived.

"She can be rather... insensitive in her methods, but... I think it comes from wanting to see you happy."

"I don't need a guy to make me happy," she says, irritably flicking a dark lock of hair out of her face. " _She_ needs me to have a guy to make _her_ happy."

"Maybe. Maybe having a husband and children is what made her happiest, and she thinks it'll have the same results for everyone," you shrug.

"I know." She chews on the inside of her cheek. "I love my mother, but.. I don't always like her. Y'ever feel like that?"

Your parents sometimes felt like visitors to you under their own roof. They funded you. Books raised you. You... _admire_ your mother.

"Much of the time."

The waitress comes and refills your water, and Jane declines another beer.

You've wondered about her romantic history. She's mentioned boyfriends in passing and told funny stories of her most awkward dates, but you've never seen her actually go on one.

"Jane, _have_ you been on any dates... ?" and it would be too direct to say Since, so you settle for, "lately?"

"Don't _you_ start," she levels a dark glance at you, and that lock of hair falls back over her face.

"I'm not," you raise your hands innocently. "I just care what's going on with you, and I like to have my facts straight."

She rolls her shoulders, looks around the empty adjacent booths, and slips a "no" into the mouth of her bottle.

"Then you..." You bite down on the rest of the question before it can fall out.

You've been friends for well over a year now. And It happened a little over three years before you met. And you don't know how long before that her last sexual encounter was. And as far as you know, casual sex doesn't appeal to her, so she would've at least dated someone she slept with, and you're confident that you would've heard about that.

In conclusion, she possibly has not had sex in a minimum of five years. You're trying to ask if your math is correct, but you really shouldn't.

Jane looks annoyed and avoids your eyes. She knew what you meant anyway and the answer is almost certainly yes.

"Hm." That would be long for you. _Long._ Maybe it isn't for her. You aren't judging. "Is that unusual for you?"

Jane shrugs.

"I mean... not really my ideal, but hey. If I haven't met anyone, I haven't met anyone."

You haven't exactly seen her _looking_ to meet anyone. In fact, you've seen her go much farther out of her way to avoid eligible men than to meet them. You wonder if Agent Dean has tried to keep in contact with her in the several months since Hoyt's return brought them together. She hasn't mentioned him.

"I miss that. But.." You're surprised to hear her add quietly, addressing her bottle, and you're hanging on the rest of the sentence until she shrugs and shakes her head, shaking off the topic entirely, sitting forward. And it is irretrievably gone. "So you. You bat for both teams, pretty much, huh?" New posture, new tone, new demeanor.

"I'm sorry?"

She smiles a little. "You like women."

"That's not a secret."

"Didn't say it was."

This would be an opportunity for flirtation, but you study all of her facial muscles and you don't think she is.

You wonder if she's thinking about whether you might secretly be interested in her romantically. You think about whether you are.

You like being courted. You like being taken to the theater and sent flowers and having your chair pulled out for you, and when you think about those things, it's always a man. A man who could give you the finer things, but knew it wasn't because you couldn't get them yourself.

You imagine Jane Rizzoli wining and dining you and you almost laugh. She would look at the menu at Le Beau Truc and ask you which thing meant French fries. You love her, but she would be so lost in your romantic world. And you in hers. Over hamburgers and beer at the Dirty Robber, you can imagine the most wonderful friendship but not a romance.

"What?" she asks, curious. She's noticed you smirking to yourself.

"Nothing." It's your turn to shrug, and you get away with it. "Much more often I prefer men, but yes."

"I've never seen you date a woman," she narrows her eyes thoughtfully.

"I don't really _date_ them."

"Oh." Her brows flick upward once, and she smiles.

You shrug, unembarrassed.

"In terms of romance, potential commitment - my interest is in men. Women, however, at least experienced ones, tend to be... shall we say, more talented in certain areas than men." You won't specify the actual word you mean to Jane, because you know what face she would make, but her face looks like she might know anyway. "That's not enough to sustain a romantic relationship, but once in a while, I... certainly do appreciate an extraordinary talent."

"Huh." When her face goes a little blank for a few moments, you wonder what kind of thought she is lost in.


	4. The Pitch

Today you want to make Jane your offer.

You've been scanning and re-scanning your motives.

You wanted to say this a week ago, but had flagged one issue - the fact that you were about to ovulate - so you decided to wait and see if it still seemed like a good idea when you had less estrogen in your bloodstream. To be extra sure your mind is clear, you also decided to call Mark - who always treats you as well as if you were in the relationship that neither of you has time for - and see if it still seemed like a good idea after that.

It still seems like a good idea. So you keep it in your pocket and wait until the appropriate time.

It happens when she's sitting at your kitchen island before your morning run. Sipping her coffee. Whining that some man asked her if she'd like to have dinner and now she's going to have to call back with an excuse.

Not only is it _instant_ coffee, but sometimes she's too impatient even to stir it thoroughly and will crunch undissolved granules between her teeth. You cringe at the back of her head.

Well, right now you certainly feel sure that lust is not your motive.

"Jane, may I ask you something personal?"

You see her eyes falter from what she's doing, but they don't move to yours.

"Huh."

"I'm not.. pressuring or anything, I just want to understand... is there a particular reason why you don't feel like going on even one date with anyone?"

She takes a very deep and thorough sigh before responding.

"Because... if you go on a date. It either sucks and you don't go on another one, so you wasted your time. Or if it didn't suck they'll ask you on _another_ one..."

"... does that also suck?"

"It.. no, but if it's good you go on _more_ dates, and after you go on enough dates... well, then you've got yourself a _relationship_."

"And?"

" _And_... in relationships, you eventually either have sex or kinda have to talk about why not."

"You don't owe anyone sex, even in a relationship," you shrug. "There _are_ some men out there who are understanding, you know. And men who have little or no interest in that themselves, if that's not something y-"

"I don't _want_ a sexless relationship, I want what would be normal for me. I don't want to live happily ever after with some real nice Ken doll of a husband who'll never t-" She frowns lightly and worries her lip.

You already knew that Jane must be afraid of sex. Anyone who knew her story would understand if she was.

But she had been much more candid than you expected. You've always been careful to give her space, and let her volunteer information about what happened. Now you wonder if the reason she's told you virtually nothing is because you haven't asked.

"Jane, I'd like to just put something out there..."

"Yeah.."

"I want you to know that I'm available to you in any way that I could ever be helpful." You press hard on the _any,_ and hope that's all she needs to know what you mean.

"Thanks," she says slowly, and you are surprised she's taken it so easily. "... huh?"

"I mean.. if there were ever any capacity in which I could help you to work on feeling more comfortable with... well, intimacy. I would be open to facilitating that."

Her eyes narrow slightly.

"You.. personally."

"Yes."

Long silence. Her brows rise.

"So... like. Sex?"

"No," you answer quickly. "Well - if that's how you interpreted it, I'd consider it. Being heterosexual, I didn't expect you to want that."

"I don't..."

"Okay."

It doesn't sting. You knew that, and if you thought it might sting at all when she said it, you would've known your motives were selfish and you wouldn't have offered. She isn't interested in you sexually or romantically, and if you thought she might be, this would be a wholly inappropriate idea.

"So what was I supposed to think that meant?" she looks at you, uncomfortable but tempering her words with gentleness because she just rejected what she thought you'd offered.

"I wasn't suggesting we have sex. I meant that if there were some specific thing... I don't know, some mildly intimate situation _,_ or some particular aspect that you were.." she hates to be called afraid, "...anxious about... maybe I could help provide some approximation of it to you in a safe and controlled way. That maybe it would be more manageable with someone you weren't attracted to."

She doesn't address any of that.

"You're attracted to me, though." It's halfway between a question and a statement, but not an accusation.

You've never meant to make that known, but you shouldn't be surprised that Jane would already have sensed it.

"I find you attractive, yes. But that isn't why I'm saying this."

"Why then?" Something bubbles up in her, creasing her brow. "Pity? Am I _that_ fucked up? You feel so sorry for me you wanna throw me a bone?"

The twinge of hurt must be plainly visible on your face, but you don't react defensively.

"I don't think that about you, Jane," you say, gently enough that she looks a little sorry. "You're my best friend and I care about your wellbeing. If you just aren't interested in dating that's fine, but I don't want to see you keep holding back forever if it's because you're afraid."

Her eyes flash at you like you've struck a nerve, but your tone is clearly one of concern and not accusation, and she doesn't interrupt.

"It's okay if you are. But you owe it to yourself to work on that. I just want you to know that you would have my total cooperation if there was anything I could do that might help, even if it were something you consider.. unconventional. But I admit," you hold up your hands, "it's a fairly abstract idea and none of my business, and if your answer is no I completely understand, and we'll say no more about it. But it's important you know this is about _not_ about pity. Have I ever acted as if I pitied you?"

Jane studies you and you wonder if enough moisture has just come to your eyes that she can detect it.

Could she be worried you might be trying to take advantage?

Maybe she's thinking about the times you've soothed her nightmares. About how she considers the right side of both your beds to be 'hers'. About the fact that you still go to sleep in the same bed every Friday as an unspoken rule and maybe another night of the week too if she wants, even now that Hoyt has become a more distant memory for her again. About whether you have ever taken any of these countless opportunities to try to kiss her, or sleep a centimeter closer to her than she wanted, or touch her anywhere below the shoulder blades.

She could not possibly come up with any red flags, because you have never done anything. And it's not because you've 'behaved yourself' - it's that you've never _wanted_ to do anything. It really isn't like that.

She sighs, rubs her face, and scratches her scalp, mussing dark tendrils every which way.

"I.. sorry, I... it's just... a weird offer, Maura."

"Then I apologize for making you uncomfortable."

"It doesn't make me uncomfortable. That you're attracted to me, I mean. But the rest of it.."

"That's really fine," you assure her. "We can disregard it." You pick your phone up from the counter. "Come on, we better get started."

She follows you quietly out the door, stretching her legs and putting in her earbuds like usual.

It feels good to get your blood pumping and flush away the tensions brought on by that conversation. Rain clouds have just cleared out, leaving the morning sky vivid blue but the air damp and cold, and the pavement wet in spots under your feet.

Halfway through, Jane slows to a jog next to you.

"Okay, so... what _did_ you think I might ask for?" she pants, pulling out one earbud. "I mean, can I have a specific example."

"You might have wanted to..." you try to even out your breath while you think of a reasonable example. She has never changed into her pajamas in front of you. "I don't know, maybe without me looking, you'd try undressing in the same room as someone else? It could be anything. Any small thing you wanted to practice or try to build up your confidence about, without having to worry."

"So like... exposure therapy."

You can't read Jane's eyes behind her sunglasses.

"Exactly. Or, as always, I'm willing to just be a good listener."

You listen to the plodding of your aligned strides on the pavement.

"Jane? I'm never going to bring this up again. If you don't either, I'll consider the topic closed."

 _Plod, plod, plod._

"Okay." She puts her earbud back in.

* * *

Everything continues as normal, as if this conversation never happened, and for two weeks you consider it an awkward dark mark on the record of your friendship.

Your intentions had been good, but you should probably not have said that. You've had at least two other friendships dissolve after admitting your attraction, and you worry that you've at least damaged this one. You worry she still thinks that you meant more than you meant.

It's raining again.

Even though the cruiser is stopped at a red light, Jane doesn't take her eyes off the road to address you.

"I didn't think I wanted to think about what you said. But I have been."

"Oh?"

"I think it's because you're a woman." Her thumbs rub back and forth over the steering wheel.

"What's because I'm a woman?"

"That I'm thinking about.." Jane swallows, and the rest of the sentence goes down her throat with it. "I don't even know what I'm thinking about. But I would never have thought about it if you were a guy. But I'm not into women." She snorts at herself. "I know how that sounds, and I know what a lot of people assume, but I'm really not."

"I believe you. But I don't mean this to be about who you're into. It's about you getting comfortable with yourself."

"I don't.. that still makes no sense. You said you didn't mean sex, but you still kind of meant stuff that's..." she shrugs. "sexu _al_?"

"Potentially, although I envisioned my role more as a... a stand-in, if you will, rather than you and I legitimately.. doing things."

"Hm. Actually I guess even just... thinking about what the hell you might even mean when you offered this has kinda been a form _of_ what you offered."

You would so love to know what scenarios have gone through her mind.

"It does make _some_ sense, which is why I thought of it," you remind her.

"Mm? Then enlighten me, O oracle." Her words are sarcastic, although her face isn't how it usually is when she's being sarcastic.

"May I speak very frankly?"

"Have you ever not?" she asks, glancing over her shoulder to change lanes.

"Here's how I see this. You're giving this consideration _because_ you aren't sexually attracted to me. You're not _repulsed_ , but I know you're not attracted. The physiological signs would be beyond your control. And although you won't actually say it back to me when I say it, I know you _do_ love me as a friend," you say, and watch a little guilt pass over her face. "Fair so far?"

She seems to struggle for a moment and then settle.

"Fair. You're not- I think you're really pretty, for the record. But, yeah."

"Thanks. As for my end, you have my word, supported by all the physical evidence you can observe, that I do love you dearly, but I'm not _in_ love with you. And though it's never been a goal of mine to have any sort of sexual contact with you, I do find you attractive and wouldn't decline the appropriate opportunity. I also don't conflate intimate situations, or even actual sex for that matter, with expectations of romantic commitment. And I'm not looking for a relationship with you."

She parks but does not turn off the car, but does not look at you either.

"So evaluating those factors," you continue, "it appears unlikely that either of us would strain our friendship by assigning any extra meaning to any... atypical activities we might engage in. But on the other hand, I know meaninglessness doesn't appeal to you either, and we do know and love and trust each other, so it wouldn't be that.

"And finally, I realize you've faced some unfair scrutiny about your sexuality which might make you apprehensive about sharing anything too intimate with me because I'm a woman. I sense that the prospect of intimacy with men currently seems too... daunting for you to be interested, but that doesn't make you anything other than heterosexual. I'm not suggesting any of this to you as a woman, but rather as... someone you trust, who is not a man."

Jane is sitting quietly, looking at raindrops on the windshield. None of the bravado or sarcasm you expected.

"It's not about your orientation, or about me," you summarize gently. "I think you just want to feel safe being close to someone again, or knowing that you _could_ get close to someone the next time you wanted to. You deserve that, but I don't think it's just going to happen on its own one day. And if you decide you'd like to try anything that I could help with, I'd be happy to do so."

She's reading your face and you can't read hers. But it isn't defensive, you know that.

You decide to make your intentions known, and then rest your case.

"Lastly, I'm going to clarify some of the terms and conditions I have in mind, just so we're on the same page, and then unless you have anything to add, we're going to go inside and go to work," you point.

She blinks at you.

"I'm not proposing a sexual relationship, but rather my cooperation for isolated elements, exercises, conversations, whatever, of your choosing. This is solely about you. No reciprocation. My own gratification wouldn't enter into this. Regardless of what you asked for, I would mean to do nothing to bring my femininity to your mind at all. I would never expect it to lead to anything else, or mean anything more than it does. I would never judge you. I would never laugh at you. I would never tell anyone. This could be one time or many times. As major or minor as you want, ceasing whenever you stop asking, with no explanations owed. Completely in your control. Outside of the time it's happening, we wouldn't have to acknowledge it. And if you decide against it entirely, I won't be hurt. I'm not _asking you_ _for_ this - I'm letting you know I'm at _your_ disposal."

You give her a minute to see if she intends to say anything.

"I need to think."

"As long as you need," you assure her. "I won't bring it up."

She's silent for a few moments and then turns off the ignition, so you reach for your door handle.

"It's not about you," she adds, and you stop. "But I guess it's not _completely_ not about you. I mean... if I didn't know you, I wouldn't still be thinking about this with the next best candidate. There isn't one anyway, but I want you to know that. I'm not saying yes. But I guess I haven't said no, so..."

"It's not something I'd think about with just anyone, either." You smile gently, and open your car door.

And you honestly don't mind whether takes you up on all this or not, but with one more addition she does make your day. Almost so quietly you could've missed it, as she holds the door and lets you pass ahead of her.

"And yeah I do love you as my friend too. For the record."

You angle your smile out of her view once you know you're losing control of its intensity, lest she pity how much this means to you, or mistake it for something else.


	5. Let's call the whole thing off

A light bulb in your hallway is burnt out.

The replacement bulb nearly flies out of your hand when suddenly Jane appears right in front of you, looking as if her presence there had taken a great deal of preparation.

"Maura. I thought about it, and, no." She says it like she's delivering a message for someone else.

You blink, identifying her topic like the only file in a cabinet labelled by its lack of a label.

"Alright," you nod.

You appreciate that she at least gave it real consideration, but you are neither disappointed nor very surprised.

She does not leave, and is blocking the closet door you need to get to.

"I just.. thanks, but there's nothing I can think of," she adds, as if she feels she has to.

"That's fine," you smile. "I understand."

She blinks at you and you blink at her. You aren't sure which one of you she's expecting to say or do something else, but neither of you does.

"Excuse me, I need to get the stepladder out of there," you point.

She looks at the bulb in your hand and then the only dark one in the ceiling.

"Hey. How many doctors does it take to screw in a light bulb?"

You smile bracingly, "How many?"

"Zero," she answers, plucking it out of your hand.

The old bulb squeaks in its socket as Jane easily reaches and begins to unscrew it. She isn't even wearing shoes.

* * *

When she emerges from your bathroom in her pajamas, instead of plopping directly into bed like usual, she just sits rigidly on the very edge of it.

It's Friday evening - the one weeknight you always spend together - and Jane has been acting a little tense for all of it. You can no longer keep from addressing it.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah?" she replies quickly, rounding on you.

"Alright," you blink.

She stares at your comforter.

When she feels the mattress shift as you climb onto the bed, her shoulder pulls inward as if you've touched it and startled her.

You freeze, trying to figure it out.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?"

"No?"

Confused, you settle cautiously on your side, leaning back against your pillows. Aware your every move is being watched in her peripheral vision.

You want to ask why she's being weird. Instead you only ask her name softly, and let your eyes ask the rest.

She loosens and sighs, caught, although she couldn't possibly have believed she'd been passing for relaxed.

"Sorry if I'm being thick, but will you tell me something?"

"What?"

"When we were talking about... when you said _not sex_. But then gave a lot of kinda sex-sounding disclaimers. Was I supposed to understand... did that mean... like, _wink-wink_ not sex?"

"No, it meant actual not sex. Also I said _intimacy_ , which encompasses a lot besides sex. But no, I meant everything I said in the most literal possible way. As usual."

She snorts.

"Guess I should've known that."

"You know I'd never try to mislead you into anything, right?"

"I didn't mean that. It just could've been uh... awkward to find out I misunderstood."

"Quite. But.. is that what you're nervous about right now? You already gave me your answer a few days ago."

"Well the thing there is that I... _might've_ said no mainly to see how you'd take it if I said no. But you took it fine, which nudged me back up to a solid maybe. And I was thinking about stuff we might do, and how if I got up my nerve, tonight was gonna be when I asked. Only I didn't tell you that part. And then tonight _arrived_ , and I realized oh shit, I don't really want to _do_ the stuff I was thinking about. And.. I guess I haven't been able to convince my brain that I didn't really have to be ready for anything."

"Oh. I'd never hold you to any plans if you weren't comfortable when the time came, though, okay?"

"I know," she makes a tight-lipped smile without looking at you, busy fidgeting with the end of the drawstring of her pajama pants.

You _must_ know what she's been thinking about.

"Purely out of curiosity, would you tell me what you were thinking of?"

"I don't.." she shrugs. "I mean, nothing crazy, but I'd really rather not."

You wish you'd already clarified that you wouldn't try to make it happen if she told you, but you need to respect her answer and let it go.

"Alright."

"So. Theoretically...," she gathers her hair and tosses it behind her, "if I _had_ told you I wanted to do something tonight, what, uh.. would _you_ have been thinking of?"

For such a skilled interrogator, this tactic is always pretty transparent when she uses it. Or maybe it's supposed to be, like when she drops hints about how much she "doesn't" want to wear a dress.

Making Jane wear dresses is part of your job description. You're perfectly aware that she doesn't really hate them, but considers it so out of character that she wants the excuse of having been talked into it, so you play your role.

Now it seems like she is interested in doing something, but doesn't know what exactly, or is too reluctant to come out and say what, and wants to be convinced a little. But on this subject, that would be inappropriate; you specifically want to _avoid_ talking her into anything. You won't chase. If she doesn't chase either, so be it.

"Nothing," you shrug, taking a pump of lotion from your nightstand and smoothing it into your hands. "I didn't have a curriculum planned, Jane. It'd just be whatever you asked."

"So if I asked you to get naked and do a headstand and sing a song, you'd do it?"

"That's a deliberately ridiculous request."

"What if that's my kink," she says, and you're very sure that that's deadpan humor, so you try your hand at it.

"Then it depends on the song."

You both laugh.

"Look," you smile, pulling back the covers and getting beneath them. "If you didn't have anything in mind, why don't we just forget about it? I don't want you to be uncomfortable even just thinking about it."

She blinks at you, hesitant.

"Really," you pat the bed. "Relax and let's just get some sleep."

She gets situated on her own side and turns out her nightstand lamp, blanketing the room in darkness.

It's quiet for a time.

Today was a long workday, and you were on your feet for a lot of it. It's good to close your eyes and start to drift.

"Are you asleep?"

You shift. "No."

"Well. There kinda is _one_ thing that might- I mean, it's really not an intimacy thing, though, it's just a... small, regular thing..."

"It doesn't have to be."

"Ok." She rolls on her side to face you, although it's too dark for you to see each other. "You know how I'm a little weird about my hands?"

"Not weird. You just don't like people touching them."

"Yeah. I mean I can shake hands and stuff fine, but.."

"You don't mind when you initiate or expect it, but you don't like when it's a surprise."

There's a pause, as if she didn't know you knew that.

"Right."

"Do they hurt, or is it just uncomfortable?"

"They don't hurt anymore."

"Good."

"So maybe you could just sorta touch my hands a little? Maybe I could get more used to it."

"Sure. Now?"

"I guess."

She brings her hands above the sheets and lays both on the center of the bed where you can find them.

Before you ask if you should put the light back on so she can see, you realize maybe the point is that she can't.

You slide one hand forward, and as soon as you graze her wrist she flinches almost imperceptibly, but instead of commenting, you repeat the move. She doesn't react a second time.

So you brush your fingers past hers.

"Okay?"

"M-hm."

You grasp all of her fingers at once, hold for a moment, and release.

"Thank you for not, by the way."

She must be referring to the way you've always been careful not to touch her hands unnecessarily, ever since you learned early on.

"You're welcome," you reply, sliding your palm over the back of her hand, and your fingertips between her knuckles. You aren't doing this too slowly or lightly, like you're trying to make it ticklish or sensual, but just providing a variety of sensations.

"But maybe it'd help if you did, sometimes. Just randomly."

"When you aren't expecting it?" You poke gentle pressure at the pad of her thumb.

"Yeah."

"During the day or just in private?"

"I guess both."

"Alright." You trace from her palm up to the tip of each of her fingers in order.

Her palms are the only place you haven't touched yet; you've been avoiding her scars by habit, until you realize that's very much a part of this. So you take her hand in yours and deliberately trace your thumb over the length of the ridge of hard tissue. Her hand twitches slightly but does not pull away. This is the first time you've ever really significantly touched her hands, or felt one of her scars more than fleetingly. It might be the first time _anyone_ has. That puts a heavy feeling in your chest.

You wish you could see her face.

You press your palm flat against hers, then shift your fingers between hers and hold her hand loosely that way. And your intention is to leave it that way for a good long time or until she pulls away, but she doesn't pull away as long as you are awake.

And this is the first exercise.


	6. Soft

Jane's bed is a little smaller than yours, her mattress a little less supportive, and her bedroom a little brighter than you'd prefer thanks to the streetlight shining through her curtains.

But you like that she's comfortable here, and how the pillows smell like her.

"Do you have a favorite part of sex?"

Your eyes open. Oh. Alright.

You wonder if it's a coincidence that she waited until just after turning off the lights to say that. There had been no other indication all evening that she intended to broach this topic. However, the direct approach is refreshing.

"Would you consider it too unimaginative if I said orgasm?"

"I guess not."

"Why, is that not yours?" It dawns on you that her question was designed for you to ask it of her, and yet there's still a pause while she considers.

"Not really."

"What is?"

"Well, I- maybe favorite is the wrong word. But I was thinking about... if I could just have any part of it right now, like skip right to the part I want just by snapping my fingers? The part I kept coming up with is honestly the after."

"Afterplay?" you smile. "That's nice. What makes that your favorite part?"

"It's..." you hear her shoulders shrug against the sheets. "Not even so much the _play_ that sounded good. Just that it's _after_. It's the part where you already did it and now it's okay, you're safe and it's over and you can just relax together and fall asleep. If I could have that feeling just, bottled, out of context. That's what I'd want."

You're sorry that feeling safe is an aspect of this fantasy that has to be specified and not merely assumed, but you decide against saying so.

"Couldn't you have that feeling, with a little imagination?"

"You can't just pretend that."

"Why not?"

"Because it's... I don't know, it's just a feeling you have to earn. You can't just pretend an actual feeling like that out of nowhere. Like if I told you to 'feel happy' on command, you know?"

"You've tried fantasizing, surely? And masturbation?"

She releases a louder breath than usual, and you aren't sure if that was too forward or just too clinically worded for her liking.

"Everyone does that."

If she's embarrassed, she needn't be. It's perfectly normal. _You_ do it, and you have as active a sex life as you desire; pleasuring yourself makes you feel sexy and keeps you in touch with your body, although it's not always about that. Occasionally it's just something you do to relieve yourself of the day's tensions, and those times it's quite utilitarian, almost detached from erotic connotation. Press button; receive oxytocin.

With a job as stressful as hers and no sexual outlet, Jane must make frequent use of that latter type. (You escort from your mind an image of her with her eyes closed and one hand down her work slacks.) But it's the former that would involve sexual fantasy, and maybe she's struggling with that.

"And it doesn't help achieve your 'after' feelings?"

"Not really."

"Not even after orgasm?"

"Look," she exhales again and you hope she isn't annoyed, "it's not about just having gotten off. I don't know. I just.. couldn't get my head in the game."

You fluff the pillow under your head.

"When I'm trying to think creatively or figure out something complex, sometimes it helps to pretend I'm describing the matter to someone else who isn't familiar with it," you explain. "That gets me to consider aspects I might otherwise have taken for granted and overlooked. I think that could make for a more immersive experience for you. Writing it down might be helpful - what if you tried journaling some of your sexu-"

"I'm not writing this shit down," she interrupts you with a laugh. "I didn't even keep a diary as a kid."

"Okay," you raise your hands in surrender and let her hear them fall back against the sheets. "But here's what I'm thinking. If you want to imagine a resultant feeling, one that can only be earned, then the logical first step is to imagine earning it. So to have an emotionally pleasing fantasy of your ideal 'after', you would first need to have imagined what the preceding sex was like. Right?"

"Right.."

"So. How was it?"

"Uh. Well, as long as I'm pretending, let's say it was real good."

"Sure, but 'good' can be so many things. What was it this time?"

Her pause is long. The question was open-ended and she doesn't seem to like that; maybe she'll do better with multiple choice than fill-in-the-blank. You try again.

"Was it your ultimate, most elaborate, intense, kinky sexual fantasy fulfilled? Or was it what realistically would've felt perfect for you and your partner tonight?"

A deep breath comes from next to you.

"Second one. But we... we probably really didn't do much. If we're being realistic." Her voice is gentler. You're glad if that means she's relaxing and taking this more seriously.

Evidently even with limitless creative freedom, she's interpreting this as a realistic first encounter, and in that case, you can understand if that means it doesn't involve intercourse or orgasm for her.

"That's fine. It doesn't have to be much physically to be satisfying emotionally."

"Yeah."

You consider asking what exactly it consisted of. Kissing? Undressing? Touching? Arousal? You decide she would probably be more comfortable if you didn't ask for too many specifics.

"Then whatever you did do, how was it? If it were just perfect, and you were to sum up the feeling of it, the nature of it, in one word. What would it be?"

She's quiet and you're wondering whether she's actively thinking, or just waiting for you to say something else. So much time passes that you almost do, but then suddenly you know, even with no indication at all, that she is finally about to reply. So you wait.

When she does answer, you somehow feel like it's a different Jane than the one you had the rest of this conversation with.

She gives you one word, which her mouth seems to treat very gently, maybe even reverently. Like she's showing you something fragile.

"Soft." Her voice sounds the slightest bit thick. Not like arousal but like she's trying not to cry.

And then so are you.

Because would that be the word she'd have chosen five or more years ago?

Because you didn't think one innocuous little word could break your heart like that, and suddenly you're really very touched that she has entrusted it to you.

"Okay." You answer gently, and you notice that your voice sounds just like hers did.

You can't find it within yourself to ask any more questions right now, and you don't think she would want to answer them anyway.

You are correct.

"G'night." It is abrupt, but small and unoffended. She just doesn't want to speak anymore.

Unfortunately for how you're feeling right now, she doesn't tend to like hugs, much less sudden and unsolicited ones. You want nothing more than to gather her into your arms and hug her tightly; nothing to do with talk of sexual fantasies, but just because you love her and you are so sorry.

But you don't, because she doesn't like that, and one reason why she trusts you is that you respect her dislikes. So instead you try to conceal your hug and all the rest in these two words.

"Goodnight, Jane."

Your last vision of Friday is the outline of her back in the dim light of her bedroom.


	7. Fantasy

She stands at attention in the elevator, her hands crossed over her belt buckle.

Warming up now, you shed your coat, looking over at the few damp specks on the shoulders of her blazer that had been flakes of snow a moment earlier. It is beyond you why she disregards the temperature and pretends not to be cold because just a few flakes of snow "don't count".

You two are alone, and the ride will be short, but just long enough that this is a good public yet private opportunity to reach over and touch the back of her hand. It takes her by surprise, but it's supposed to. She already understands by the time her eyes have darted to yours.

The elevator slows to a stop, and you pull your hand away before the doors start to open - not that you weren't about to anyway.

As far as you know, the rotund man that joins you is a stranger to both of you, and you weren't doing anything inappropriate, but you know that Jane will appreciate him not having seen it.

Arriving in the bullpen, you find Korsak teasing Frost. You missed what he'd said, but you can tell because he looks amused and Frost is ignoring him, looking annoyed and clicking his mouse much more forcefully than necessary.

"One snowflake and he's bundled up like the kid from a Christmas story," he chuckles to Jane through a mouthful of doughnut. You notice the coat hanging over the back of Frost's chair.

Jane smirks but swats his arm in her partner's defense.

When you get to your office you'll have to Google whichever Christmas story that might be.

With the thick coat over your own arm plainly visible to all, you wonder if this teasing will be extended to you, but it is not.

* * *

Though neither of you mentions it during the intervening week, the next Friday night continues in the same vein as the last one.

Into bed (yours this week). Lights out. And it picks up as smoothly as if you had planned on it.

You ask questions, helping Jane construct the fantasy of an intimate interlude. This time you get more detailed, and are pleased to find that she doesn't shy away.

She sometimes replies yes or no if the question allows it, or sometimes just "K" to indicate she has thought of an answer but it isn't for your ears.

Who initiated the first kiss? Did she or her partner undress? Were they standing, sitting, laying in bed? Where did she touch him?

Eventually, her only response is a disgruntled noise.

"No offense, but I feel like I'm on a witness stand or something with these questions."

"Oh," a pang of regret flashes through you. "I'm sorry. Do you want to stop?"

"Well, there is something to this," she admits, "but maybe we could just do it a little different."

"Sure, how?"

"I don't know how I'm gonna explain this so it doesn't sound the wrong way, but can it be more... well, first person, I guess? Not like.. that it's _YOU_ , but... I don't know, it just seems easier to talk about that way. I mean, for one thing, I don't talk to people about that stuff. When I'm with someone I don't go around telling my friends what he does in the sack. That stays between us. So I think it feels kind of funny even with a fake guy, if that makes any sense."

"Oh," you blink. "Yes, I think I understand. Alright, first person, so... _I_ am to assume the role of your partner?"

"I.. well, now that I hear that, it... no, we don't have to do that. No, never mind. Never mind."

"It's just different pronouns, Jane, it wouldn't make it be like _I_ was your partner," you assure her. "I can just fill a role, and know your words aren't about me personally."

"That'd be kind of... awkward, though?"

"Not if neither of us makes it so," you shrug. "Not if we both understand what it is and isn't. It's exactly the kind of thing I said I was willing to do, so I'd be fine with it, if you were."

"Alright," she decides after a pause.

So you will play her partner. And since her partner would be male...

"Okay, then there is one issue I suppose I ought to clarify ahead of time... do you want me to speak as if I'm a man?"

She snorts, "You gonna make your voice deeper?"

"No, I meant, should I need to refer to myself... anatomically..."

" _Oh._ N... no. That would be weirder. I'm not gonna do a thing but burst out laughing if you start talking about your wang."

"Fine. First person, with me as a gender neutral stand-in for your intimate partner."

"Yeah, let's try that."

"Okay. Shall we start over?"

"Okay." She takes a deep breath.

"So. How did it begin? A kiss?"

"Yeah."

"Did I kiss you first, or did you kiss me?"

A pause.

"I kissed you," Jane provides hesitantly.

Her cooperation puts a faint smile on your face. You wonder how much thought she has given to this in the past week.

"Okay. What time of day was it?"

"Uh. Night. Bedtime. We were about to go to sleep."

"We were in bed already."

"Yeah."

"What kind of a day was it before this?"

"Um." She searches. "Lazy. A good boring weekend in. We didn't do anything all day."

"So you felt relaxed."

"Yeah."

"Okay. So we were laying in bed and you leaned over and kissed me."

"Yeah."

"And then?"

"Well, I guess you put your arms around me and kissed me back."

"So you were sort of.. on top," you try, putting the ghost of a question mark at the end. Filling in the blank for her, but also welcoming her to change it.

Jane's head shakes against the pillowcase. "No."

" _I_ was on top."

"Nobody was on top."

"We were side by side." It goes unchallenged.

"Uh-huh."

You don't get the impression that she's doing anything besides thinking or waiting, so you prompt her.

"And we just kissed for a while?"

"Yep. Just a little.. good old makeout."

"Hm," you make a small sound so she can hear that you're smiling. "That's nice. Small kisses?" You remember her word. "Soft kisses."

"Yeah. And... deep ones. Not like, sloppy deep." She spends a quiet moment in her mind. "Nice deep. Soft deep."

Her voice is gentler but her additions are a little bolder. This is good - for _her_ progress, that is - but you won't pretend you aren't enjoying it.

"Slow," you add.

"The kind where you forget."

Sorrow tugs at you, but you tug back out of its grasp. Maybe she doesn't mean that. Maybe she means the kind when you're enjoying yourself so much that all else slips from your mind.

"We took our time."

"Uh-huh."

"I kissed your lips... and.." you give her a moment to fill the blank, then try it for her. "Did I kiss anywhere besides your lips?"

"In.. harmless places."

"Mm-hm. I gave you lots of kisses... little ones, in harmless places." You think of her letting you ("you") kiss her neck. Throat. Décolletage. She couldn't mean more than that.

"Uh-huh."

Her skin would be warm.

Your own skin feels a little warm.

"You" would enjoy this. Can you say that? Your own enjoyment isn't supposed to enter into this, then again, intimacy is not one-sided. Knowing one's partner is enjoying themselves is an important - nay, crucial - part of the experience. And it would be "your" enjoyment, not _your_ enjoyment.

"I loved kissing you." You decide on the most harmless possible place. An 18th-century kiss on the hand is probably not what she means. You want the most intimately harmless place. "..your neck."

You hear her inhale deeply.

"I liked that," she adds softly.

"What did you like?"

"Feeling your lips on my neck." Her reply makes you smile, but before you can think of what else to say without escalating this, there comes an abrupt addition. "That's about all we did."

"That's all," you agree gently.

"But it was nice."

"It was lovely. It felt good to be close."

"Uh-huh."

"You didn't worry about me kissing you anywhere else. You knew I wouldn't." You want her to be sure of that, even though you're not really anyone, and you never really kissed her anywhere.

"I knew," she reassures you.

"We were just close. And soft." You keep gift-wrapping the same word and giving it to her, and she keeps liking it.

She makes a small sound of approval, and because you don't dictate what happens next, there is a little silence. And when you hear how her voice sounds next time she uses it, you understand the silence.

"And then you put your arm around me, and kissed my head, and that's all there was to it. I guess.. I guess we both thought there was gonna be more, again, and I hoped you weren't... well, for me it... that was nice just like that."

"It was perfect. There doesn't have to be more. I just loved being close to you." Whether this is what you _would_ say, or what "you" _should_ say, doesn't matter, because you've already said it, and luckily they are the same anyway.

You are really not expecting the next part, where she moves closer to you, asking "Can I?" even though she is already in the process of settling next to you and leaning her forehead a little against your shoulder.

And of course, you answer "Of course." Unable to decide whether your next question begins 'can' or 'should' or 'do you want', you omit large sections of it and trust she'll still know what you mean. "My arm around you, and.. ?"

She nods, so you do put your arm around her.

And as quietly as she's doing it, you're aware in a matter of seconds that she is crying.

She doesn't pretend that she never cries, but she doesn't like to be seen doing it. You've seen her one-noble-tear cry lots of times, but you've never seen her Kleenex cry. Maybe she's trying to hide it this time because you've never seen her cry in this context.

It stings at your eyes in not just a sad way but a bittersweet way, and that is probably the type of cry that it is for her. What _does_ make you sad is that she's still trying to hide it from you while in your arms.

"Sorry." She knows she's not hiding it successfully though, and you hear her wiping her face, embarrassed. The pressure against your shoulder lessens, and you're afraid she might roll away.

"Please don't be," you soothe, tightening your arm around her for just a moment. Asking her to please stay, but without suggesting you'd try to keep her. "It's okay. Really."

She stays, and you hold her. One arm, not that close, not very tight; not like a simulated post-not-quite-coital embrace. You might've meant it like that a minute ago, but not now. Now you mean it like comforting a dear friend who is crying, and there is nothing simulated about it, nor the kiss you press into the top of her head.

She stays and she cries, maybe working just a bit less hard to conceal it. And you move your hand soothingly on her back until she stops, and then a little longer than that.

* * *

"I'm worse than I thought, too." You look up and see her spooning her cereal aimlessly from one side of the bowl to the other.

"What do you mean?"

"C'mon, Maura," she says, her voice still gravelly with sleep. "All you did was put your arm around me a little bit and I cried for like an hour."

"It was nowhere near an hour," you point out, but realize that was the wrong response. "There's nothing wrong with having a lot of feelings."

"It does uh.. make this little project a bit different than you probably had in mind."

She gives her brow and eyes a thorough rub. It's too late to remind her that she already put her makeup on, so you just smile to yourself when she sees the brown smears on her hand and curses under her breath.

"Not at all. If it helps you process your feelings, it's exactly what I had in mind. Jane, you don't ever have to feel embarrassed with me about anything, okay?"

She looks at you sheepishly through smudged eyeliner, a look of hope tempered by reservations.

"I mean it. It's fine if you cry. I'm not someone you have to look tough for," you smile gently. "You can show up at my house just _to_ cry, if you want to. Okay?"

"Last night-" she stops short, and you wait patiently to show her you aren't giving up on this sentence. "I know it wasn't hardly anything, and even that much was pretend. But.." she smiles weakly at her cereal and shrugs. "It felt really nice. It meant a lot to me."

Your heart tugs lightly at its seams where it'd broken before.

Just falling asleep with your arm loosely around her (and you woke up on opposite sides of the bed, so for all you know, that embrace didn't last any longer than you were both awake), is quite possibly the closest she's been to anyone in years. This is not just a matter of intimacy or sex; this woman is starved for human touch, period.

Now that you know how it feels to kiss her head reassuringly, you really want to do that now, but you shouldn't bring that out of the bedroom.

You settle for a touch on the arm.

"Then it means a lot to me, too," you smile, and go to get dressed.


	8. One little oops

Slowly. You wield your scalpel almost in slow motion, so that she has plenty of time to anticipate and to look away if she needs to. Her breathing is more noticeable than usual, and she isn't standing terribly close, but she does not look away.

She is handling it well and you praise her by not commenting at all.

"So'd you always know you wanted to dissect dead people when you grew up?"

A real question. Still somewhat rare, and you appreciate that, but it doesn't happen to be one you like. You disguise your lack of a smile as concentration on removing the pancreas.

"I always wanted to be a doctor, ever since I was small."

"Not just a regular doctor? Didn't want the patients able to critique your work?" she smirks.

It's only a joke, but it makes you feel a little brittle inside, and you're still deciding whether you want to try to cover that up when you realize she's already seen it. And now there's little to do but explain.

It's not a secret, but it is your least favorite memory.

"I lost a patient once." That is the polite version. You close your eyes for a moment and correct it. "I.. _killed_ a patient once."

What was left of her smirk dissolves. She doesn't ask you to elaborate, but her silence leaves you the space to do so.

So as not to continue your work with divided attention, you pause in order to clean and reorganize your instruments.

"I was so young... I applied to work with Médecins Sans Frontières the first day I met the requirements. It was stressful but I loved it. But one day we were caught short-handed and this young man needed immediate surgery and... being a know-it-all with good credentials made me the closest thing to a qualified thoracic surgeon present."

Without looking up, you know that she is watching you patiently.

"One wrong cut," you answer the question she has not asked. "The worst part is, I wasn't flustered. It wasn't my first time in an operating room. It wasn't because I didn't know what I was doing - I _did_. I knew the right thing to do and my hand just did something else. Ever do that? Reach for the salt shaker and pick up the pepper?" You buff the edges of your instrument tray which are already clean and shining. "That's all it was. The human body can survive the most catastrophic trauma.. but then sometimes all it takes is one little 'oops'."

You knew it before you'd even pulled your hand back. No moment was as horrible as that second of silence - when no one else realized yet, but you knew you were about to hear the monitor flatline. When you already knew that your next frantic efforts to fix your error would be fruitless.

It felt like molten lead being poured into your chest. You would have redone your entire life from birth to get another chance at the previous three seconds. You still would.

"His name was Anton and his only family was one young brother and I think about both of them every time I pick up a scalpel."

"I'm sorry," Jane says gently.

It was dark outside when you found yourself in the dormitory, sitting on the floor at the foot of your cot, and evidently for so long your legs were numb. Not quite crying. Just blank. Someone sat down and gave you what might have been a pep talk, but you didn't hear it. Besides being devastated at what you'd done, you were ashamed at having apparently just wandered off and deserted your colleagues, but you simply could not cope.

You were brilliantly educated on the subject of saving lives, and you knew you might not save all of them, but you were completely emotionally unprepared for the possibility of _ending_ one.

Later they told you the chances were slim that even an experienced surgeon could've saved Anton. You may have been inexperienced, but you were a real doctor, and you knew what you were doing. What you should have done, should have worked.

"I didn't handle it well. I loved medicine but I knew I couldn't be in a position where that could happen again. I thought, okay, never surgery again, maybe I'll be a pharmacist- but then I thought of accidentally poisoning someone. I could be a dentist, and do a Novocaine injection wrong and cause a seizure. I got so terrified at the idea of killing someone that I couldn't do anything for a while. Not just practicing medicine - I mean even being around people at all. Until I realized... there is one type of person you can't possibly hurt." You release half an amused breath, because probably Jane would laugh at herself if she were telling this story. "I couldn't handle death, so for a while I only wanted to be around the dead."

Jane matches that breath.

"High stakes or low, everybody screws up, Maura. Even the best. It's just being human."

"I know. But being able to cope with that is an important part of it, and I couldn't."

"Was that your true calling? Saving lives?"

In case the answer were a painful 'yes', you're a little surprised she asked it of you.

"No. I thought I was settling at first, but this is right for me. I'm sorry it took someone's life to get me here, but I love where I am today. Saving lives would be rewarding, sure, but.. people don't stop mattering, don't stop needing help, just because they stop being alive."

You wonder if she believes you, and you glance up to see whether she does. And of course she does, because her career centers around that fact as well. She smiles softly.

"I've never seen you make a mistake here."

"I never have, that I'm aware of." Although it doesn't help Anton, you're proud of that. None of these patients are less deserving of flawless work.

"Well, you're the best."

You smile back a little, but you don't feel especially happy, and this conversation is doing nothing to preserve forensic evidence that will help the man on your table.

You put this from your mind, you focus, and you take up your scalpel.

* * *

"So you got better," she says, propping her pillow and settling against it. "At being around people. Live ones."

"I did."

"Probably took a while?"

"A while," you nod. "It could've been faster, but I didn't always feel like practicing."

She nods slowly, processing something.

"Would you do something for me?"

"Sure," you answer, and reach for the lamp on your side of her bed.

"No wait, leave it on," she stops you. "I mean, not a talking thing. Something else I want to find out."

You look at her for more, and she doesn't look back. In casual conversation she has no trouble making eye contact, but she avoids it when she's trying to say something personal.

"I'm not real good at being... close," she says, and you are sure that is not all of it, but that is where she stops.

You reach over and slip your hand into hers, which barely flinches. Her fingers are cold and you wrap them in yours.

"See," she smiles a little sadly, rubbing her thumb once across your fingers.

"You're getting better. See?" You squeeze her hand lightly to emphasize how she's still letting you hold it.

She squeezes back.

"Yeah. But see, just... _close_ isn't really all I mean." She scoots much closer to you, both of you on your backs a few inches apart. "Close this way is one thing. But close _this_ way.." she moves a hand up and down over her face, "is another thing."

"Face to face?" you blink. "Do people stand too close for your liking?"

"No, I mean.. not standing. Just like this." She swallows. "Three inches to my right is okay. Three inches... _over_ me, wouldn't be nearly as okay. I've wondered _how_ not okay, for a long time. So do you think you could just kinda... " she gestures to the space above her own body, "... be.. here? For a minute? Just so I can see?"

You won't ask why.

"I can do that."

"Listen, uh," she keeps your hand for a moment longer to delay your moving. "If I act like it's awful, it's nothing personal, okay?"

"Of course," you assure her, and go to move again, but she still keeps your hand.

"Because I liked being close with you before," she adds, still addressing the ceiling. "So it's not... this is something else, okay?"

Like she said, this is not merely a matter of personal space or contact. You're sorry that you have a pretty good theory about what this is.

"I️ understand."

Maybe it's the way you said it that makes her look at you to see whether you really do understand, and then you are much more sure that you do. Maybe you should've given her the privacy of pretending otherwise, but you want her to know that it's okay that you know. You smile gently and her eyes leave you.

"So I'm only doing this for a moment?" you clarify. "Just long enough to see how you react?"

"Yeah. And then maybe just stay there for a minute, if you would," she shrugs. "To work on it."

You'd do that, but you can't help imagining what a worst case scenario might look like.

"Okay, but not if you appear to be.. in distress."

"For your safety, I wouldn't ask you to do this if I thought I'd get all the way to distress," she smiles a little.

"Oh... alright. But I'll move as soon as you say, okay?"

"Wouldn't ask you if I thought you wouldn't."

"Okay."

After righting yourself, you decide to put one hand on the other side of her and lean your upper body over hers diagonally. You look to her for more instructions.

"No, I mean... full on."

Straddling her is all you can think to do, so you do that carefully, supporting yourself as high above her as your arms will extend.

The change on her face is subtle but immediate, and you scoot back slightly so you are a little less than directly over her.

"Like this?" you ask, making sure to hold yourself so that no part of you is touching any part of her.

"Yep."

If anyone else were seeing this, and had suspected this might be a pretense for getting into an exploitable position, they would be sure now that it is not. Her discomfort is plain to see.

"Are you okay?" You ask anyway. "How is it?"

"Not freaking out," she reports tersely, "but not great."

You nod; the assessment seems fair. She's not in panic, but looks like she's working at enduring this.

"Okay," she breathes.

"Does that mean to move?" you ask, leaning away.

"No. Stay a minute?"

So you just hover there and try not to look at how tense she is. Now is not a good time to tell her she shouldn't grind her teeth.

She repeats very quiet 'okay's a few more times and you come to understand that she isn't talking to you. You remember you've heard her do that before when calming herself after nightmares.

Making her uncomfortable is making you uncomfortable, and you detest what you're making her try so hard not to think about. You'd like to give her one of those little reassuring head kisses, but she hasn't asked you to and it might be vastly inappropriate in this situation.

"Forty-five seconds," you announce. If they seem to be passing this slowly for you, they probably feel like an eternity to her.

She's just laying under you, stiff as a board, arms at her sides, possibly holding her head halfway up off the pillow. Once in a while her shoulders will roll around like she wants to writhe away. Blinking unusually rapidly, she looks somewhere beyond you, probably because she would find eye contact awkward at this proximity.

You wonder why she doesn't just close her eyes, then.

Maybe she _wants_ to see you. No - she wants to be _able_ to see that it's you. That's why she wanted the lights on for this. You wonder if she might've broken your nose in the dark.

Her breathing is very quiet... _is_ she breathing? You don't hear it.

"Breathe," you remind her, and then you do hear a deep breath. "Thirty."

This shouldn't just be silent. You want to remind her who you are. It was important that you were just a stand-in the other times, but this time it's important that you're exactly you.

"You're doing really well," you smile in case she looks, but she doesn't.

You scrounge for something light. No - inane. A joke! You don't really know any good ones, but maybe a good one isn't what you need right now.

"Knock knock."

Her focus shifts to you slowly, like it's taking her a moment to believe you just said that.

"Who's there?"

"To."

"To who?"

"To _whom_."

She stares up at you, and you run through it again mentally to make sure you told it correctly, until finally an eyeroll and a snort overtake her.

"Wow. That's the most _you_ knock knock joke I've ever heard."

You grin, and you're glad that she keeps eye contact for the last few seconds.

"Time."

"Alright," she nods, and you're instantly back on your own side of the bed.

She closes her eyes and exhales, and you think that is it for tonight.

You had secretly hoped she might like to be held again like the other night, but you can understand that she's had enough right now.

She does nothing more than thank you after you turn out the light, so you wish her a good night's sleep and seek your own.


	9. Stand-in

Once a week or sometimes two, these new types of nights with Jane are now safe to call a routine.

Twice more she's asked to practice feeling you on top of her, and you've learned that if you can get her to smile, or look right at you, or keep a light conversation going, she seems less tense.

You've worked on some more fantasizing as well, although you've stopped considering it sexual fantasy since it has not progressed any closer to actual sex than what you discussed the first time. Maybe she never intends it to, and that is fine. However you have noticed progress in that she's getting a little less bashful each time about stating her wants, and that she usually lets you put your arm around her after, or at least rests her head against your shoulder. Privately, that is the part you enjoy most.

You've been ready for her to cry again, but you're not sure she has. Possibly once, and just a little. It's sweet and you like to hold her and you wouldn't mind if she cried every time.

This Friday you've been eager most of the day for the moment you'd finally climb into bed, but not for reasons involving Jane. A crime scene, two autopsies and your period have left you quite drained.

The cramps in your abdomen are mild enough to ignore, but lower back pain is usually what bothers you most, and it's only exacerbated by being on your feet all day. You arch a little, trying to stretch out the ache, and it catches her attention.

She asks if your back is bothering you, and if it's your period, and if she can get you some aspirin.

When you decline the aspirin, she offers to rub your back.

Because she's never offered this before, you wonder if this is more closeness practice for her, or if she's just being your friend. Either way, you roll over onto your stomach on her bed.

You've received some unsatisfying back rubs before; usually you'll try to coach them to improvement, but since she may not be all that comfortable touching you either, this time you'll just take what you get.

She goes to work on your lower back with her thumbs and the heels of her hands, and you're pleasantly surprised that she isn't hesitant at all, and in fact, is applying exactly the generous pressure you had hoped for. That pressure forces what you'd meant to be a relaxed exhale into an unexpectedly loud pleasurable groan, and you both laugh out loud.

So you just close your eyes and smile absently while she sits on her bed with you and kneads the tension from the small of your back with good strong hands, and tells you about how she's pretty sure Korsak is now caring for those two raccoons that he suspected of stealing evidence from the dumpster at last week's crime scene.

This feels wonderful. It's nice of her to do, and when this story ends you're going to tell her so.

* * *

It takes you longer than necessary to reply to the emails in your inbox because in between every one, your mind drifts back to this morning.

First of all, you must have fallen asleep while she was massaging your back last night. Although your neck is now sore from sleeping on your front, something warms you about the notion of Jane realizing you were asleep, probably tapering off her massage so as not to wake you, and tucking the covers over you.

This morning you woke naturally around 6 as usual, and you must have rolled and pulled those sheets in your sleep, because Jane was uncovered. And you looked over and saw her hand tucked down, cupping herself between the legs of her gray plaid pajamas.

For a moment you thought you'd caught her and she was pretending to be asleep, but that wasn't the case. Her slumber was genuine. So before getting up and going about your morning, you had returned the favor and gently covered her.

You wonder what that hand had been doing before she fell asleep and left it there.

You wonder what you missed last night.

There was nothing about that back rub that you'd call erotic, so it seems unlikely that that inspired anything for her. You're fairly certain that her arms never leave her sides during your discussions at night, anyway. Certainly you don't mind if she touched herself while in bed with you; you just didn't think she would.

For the sake of her privacy, your nobler half is glad you had no idea. Your less noble half is a little sorry you happen to be such a sound sleeper.

* * *

"Did I kiss your neck?"

Even though your bedroom is dark, closing your eyes still helps you immerse yourself.

"Yeah. Right under my ear."

"And what were your hands doing while I kissed you?" Right after the question leaves your lips, you remember about her hand. That wasn't what you meant. Or maybe it was subconsciously.

You don't expect her response to have anything to do with that, and it doesn't.

"Wrapped around you. Just feeling your.. your back. Your shoulders."

"Mm-hm. You held me and I kissed at your throat. I kissed all the way down to the collar of your shirt."

"You know what?" she pauses. "I don't think I was wearing a shirt."

"Oh," you grin in the dark. That's a first. "That was a pleasant surprise. And what did I do about that?"

"You just kept kissing, just.. lower," she replies, her voice mellow. "See, you didn't rush to do anything new right away, and I liked that. All you did at first was kiss right down the middle."

"You liked how I just did that for a while? Just little kisses down your chest... between your breasts?"

"Yeah. I thought that was sweet." (You think so, too.) "You didn't even start to touch 'em for a while."

"Well, I liked just kissing you so much that I wasn't in a hurry," you say, allowing you both to relish that moment and slow its departure. Even though you're speaking slowly and repetitiously and working in details, this conversation is moving much faster than the real actions would, so you try to draw everything out a bit. It's still nowhere near the pace of the real thing; you suspect that in reality she would need it to be positively glacial. "But when I did, how did I touch you?"

"You just felt them.. nice, I don't know. From the sides. You kinda brushed your thumbs.. while you kept kissing in the middle. It was nice."

"Oh, I loved that," you say as fondly as if it had happened, having no trouble envisioning it. "I loved that you let me touch you like that."

"And kiss," she adds.

"And kiss. I loved.. " Is she ready? You're pretty sure that's what that means. You go for it. "I loved kissing your breasts."

There's a beat of silence that makes you nervous before a smile spreads on your face.

"It was so nice."

Her voice makes you feel warm inside; you love when it gets like this. You wouldn't say she sounds aroused, but it's a warm and gentle and relaxed tone which you've only ever heard in this context.

"It really was." You're thinking about doing it, and it's... nice indeed. Stretch this out. "I just kissed your breasts for a long time. You felt my lips on every bit of you, and I was enjoying it as much as you were."

"I could tell you were. I was flattered."

"Why?" you smile.

"'Cause I know you have the nicer ones. And for you to seem like you cared about mine.." there is almost a laugh on her voice.

But that laugh ends abruptly, and your eyes open wide in the dark, and you would bet that hers have as well.

"Fuck," she mutters. "Okay, time out."

"It's fine, we'll just go with it," you promise.

You're happily surprised, but you know better than to make too much of this; it doesn't mean she's really thinking about you. Logically, it would be hard to fantasize about intimacy without having any details of your intimate partner's character, so it makes sense that she would default to using pieces of you to fill in the blank spots, even subconsciously.

"No, it's important we both know what this is," you hear her rubbing her face. "Look, I appreciate you're keeping this gender neutral, but it's not like I don't know it's you talking, and you're not neutral."

"You can picture me if you want to," you assure her. "Or anyone. I don't care."

"It's not that it's _you_ , it's just that it takes extra steps mentally to translate it to being someone other than you, when you're obviously the one I'm talking to."

"I understand."

"It's like..."

"It's like I'm the actor playing the character," you supply. "I'm not _really_ the character, but it is me that you're seeing."

"Yes." You can barely see her raising a finger thoughtfully and pointing it toward you in the dark. "Yes. It's exactly like that."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

And that seems to be it, and you're glad she hasn't made enough of a fuss to have lost the moment entirely.

"Also, I don't think your breasts are any less nice." That works as either a fantasy or a reality comment, and she can take it whichever way.

You hope she doesn't have any breast size esteem issues. Obviously yours are larger, but she isn't flat-chested, and even if she were, breast size does not determine beauty.

She snorts. "Thanks."

"I thought they were beautiful just for being yours. And I loved kissing them."

"Me too. Made me feel nice."

"Of course. I did it for as long as you liked."

There's an exhale next to you.

"I peeked." She says it like a confession. You aren't sure you understand.

"You peeked?"

"I wasn't watching before. I don't like to be watched and I don't like to be a hypocrite. But I peeked."

"Oh. What did you see?"

"You... on top of me and you were warm and you had your mouth on my nipple and it felt so good and I wasn't nervous." She forces it out in one breath, like she might lose her nerve.

Your eyes widen, and when you feel that first warmth spill from you, you know this is no longer exclusively altruistic.

Maybe this is the first moment she's permitted herself to assign a face to her fantasy partner, and it's yours. You smile to yourself.

But you skim over the part where she just said her nipple is in your mouth and ask about the part that's more surprising.

"I was on top of you?"

"Yeah. At first I... you were being so good to me, I wasn't scared. I knew I could trust you. And the longer you were kissing me the more it felt okay."

"Oh, that made me so happy," you grin genuinely at how that makes you feel something delightful in your chest.

She makes some sound of agreement.

"And by the way, you can watch me as much as you like," you assure her. "If you like to watch me, I want you to."

"Okay."

"How did my mouth feel when I kissed your nipple?" you ask delicately.

"Really soft, and..." there's a slurred chuckle that you suppose needn't be translated into words. "It was so warm when..."

"When I sucked them," you finish.

You hear a breath.

For a moment you're amused that you almost think you can hear her heart thumping, but realize it's yours.

"Is that something you like?" you ask, filling the silence yourself. "Having your nipples sucked?"

"Yeah." You hear Jane swallow. "A lot."

You smile audibly.

"Are they sensitive?"

"I... a normal amount, I️ guess?"

"Well, do you like them to be sucked very hard? And played with?" You'd love to touch your own right about now, but it'll do you no good to think about that.

"Oh. No, not very. I don't.. you know, nothing.. intense."

So she doesn't like a lot done; she likes a _little_ done, and she likes that a lot. Got it.

"Okay. So you enjoyed it much more that I️ loved your breasts gently, but for a very long time."

"Definitely."

"You were beautiful, and I loved getting to spend a long time... just suckling softly. Feeling the shape of you under my fingers and my lips."

"It was so soft."

"Soft," you return her word back to her like always.

Now you're sure enough she's about to end this that you'll spare her the small awkwardness you think that causes her.

"And I took my time, because I knew this was all we were going to do. You know what? This was all _I_ wanted to do."

"Really?"

You smile at how she says it.

"I enjoyed it so much. We could've done more, but we knew we could do that any time. Right now, this was so lovely... I think we wanted to enjoy just this." You honestly aren't sure whether you're saying that more to take the pressure off of her, or because you really think it. Well, you certainly couldn't be lying. "Just this. Just softly. For a long time. I think we probably only stopped because we got too sleepy."

She shifts next to you and there is a long exhale.

"How did you feel, Jane? Being close like that?"

It takes her a moment to answer.

"I can't tell you."

And you aren't sure whether that means she's aroused and embarrassed to say so, or if she meant her emotions are too strong or complicated to express. Judging by her tone you suspect the latter, but don't want to ruin the moment with an incorrect assumption, so you won't pursue it.

No one says anything else, and then she rolls closer to you and puts her head by your shoulder and an arm over your waist.

For an instant you're torn between two worlds; the mild throbbing sensation between your legs and the loveliness of her resting against you.

On principle, you wouldn't do anything about the former anyway, even if you were sure you could do it without her knowing. _She's_ free to do that, but you doing it is another matter. This isn't about you.

You wonder if she's wet, too. She could hardly be doing anything about it in this position- no, you shouldn't think about that.

Instead you focus on her arm around you, and appreciate the purer feelings of comfort and affection, and more importantly how those are real enough for her to actually do them. And you genuinely love that enough to ease the other feeling fairly soon.


	10. Beautiful naked jackass

You honestly had no idea she was in your bathroom changing out of her work clothes when you walked in there. The most you'd seen was a blur in your peripheral vision, but you'd immediately yanked the door shut and apologized and gone downstairs.

You aren't sure whether it's modesty, or fear, or insecurity about her body that makes her need to change in private in the first place, but still, you're very sorry to have intruded on her, but surely she knows it was an honest mistake.

As long as you're unsupervised in your kitchen, you might as well get a head start on dinner.

One of Jane's favored topics of distraction is food, so you're sure the instant she comes down, she's going to suggest eating something unhealthy - but not if she sees you already have something else underway. You begin assembling a salad of quinoa, brussels sprouts and cranberries. Your first step should be to cook the quinoa, but since you know she'll eat brussels sprouts without complaint so long as they don't _look_ like brussels sprouts, you get those finely sliced first.

The water is boiling when she appears in your kitchen bare-faced in socks and sweats. You watch her eyes gather clues from around your kitchen that it's too late to say she wants to order a meatball sub.

She disappears from your vision and you hear your refrigerator door open.

"Did you see me?"

"No," you assure her quickly. "I'm really sorry, though. I'll be more careful."

"It's fine."

A few measures of silence.

"Would I be a jackass if part of me was a little... exhilarated thinking you might've?"

"No," you assure her again, acting as if that thought isn't a little exhilarating to you. "Why would that make you a jackass?"

You hear the sound of something involving your salad bowl, but her next comment stops you identifying it.

"So what if... you did happen to. Sometime. Like just for a second."

You turn around.

There are now pecans in the bowl. Something about that makes you smile.

"I don't think any harm would be done. If it were to happen."

"It'd be best if nobody said a word about it."

You nod.

And you mean to ask if there's to be some kind of signal, but she starts talking about something else and then you don't want to be the one to bring it back up, so you leave that idea on the back burner and eat your dinner.

She does not complain about the brussels sprouts.

"Did you still want to watch a movie tonight?" you ask.

"You know, before we start that," she rises and looks at you a little pointedly, "I might shower tonight instead of in the morning. That way I can sleep a little longer."

That could also be a good opportunity for- _oh_. That's what she means.

Part of you wants to tell her this pretense is not necessary, and that she could strip right here in the dining area for all you care, but you guess she needs it to be this way.

"That's a good idea," you agree.

She smiles a little at how you rise hesitantly also. Not hesitantly because you're nervous, but because you don't know how to handle this exactly to her liking without knowing exactly what she has in mind.

You follow her up to your bedroom, and she deposits you there with the suggestion that maybe you could do her a favor and bring her a towel in a minute, and she disappears into your bathroom. And you're definitely sure what that means because she definitely knows there are already clean towels in that bathroom.

So you get this all-important extra towel and loiter in your bedroom with it, tidying up, wondering how long you should wait. Listening.

The water is running. She certainly is clearing her throat a lot. You wonder if she's having respiratory-

"Oh!" you realize, "Is that the signal?"

"Just come over here," she replies sighingly (and rolls her eyes, you strongly suspect).

You catch yourself taking a gulp of air and remind yourself that _she's_ the one nudity is a big deal for, not you.

There she is standing in front of your vanity, nearly in profile, brushing her hair. Not standing the way women do when they want to look attractive nude without overtly posing, but just standing there like she would be if she had clothes on. She isn't trying to look attractive for you, because you guess that the point of this is not for you to find her attractive, although _oh_ , do you.

No surprises leap at you; she's long and lean and beautiful, just as you expected. She kept her panties on, but you can see her breasts and the hypothesis you don't remember permitting yourself to make, about her nipples being a slightly darker hue than her lips, is correct.

As you've been invited for a glimpse, not a study, you now raise your eyes to hers and keep them there.

You are no longer disappointed about not being allowed to comment.

The first girl you ever slept with was rather insecure about her body. When she revealed herself to you, you liked what you saw, but she was watching your face and waiting for you to be overcome with passion, and getting hurt that you were not. She was a sweet girl and you wanted to say something that would boost her confidence, so you searched for a word to give her, and you chose 'exquisite'. Privately, you regret that.

Exquisite is a word that was created for what you're seeing right now, but it has tasted odd in your mouth ever since then, and it would feel disingenuous to use the same word for Jane that you used for Susanne. So you're glad she forbade you to comment, because that's the only word you would've wanted to use.

She's watching your face and she's exquisite and nervous but pretending to be neither.

Is this supposed to end now?

Well, you can't say _nothing_. You wonder what she would say if this were the other way around. She would know what to say.

She might joke.

"Nice... weather we're having," you try.

Her face cracks into a snorting laugh - the kind where her eyes close - and she closes the bathroom door in your face. And you hear your shower door slide.

You're not overcome by passion at the sight of her body, but bowled over by how much you're friends with the person who lives inside it; how much you like her and how glad you are that she trusts you.

And alone in your bedroom, you laugh too.

You forgot the towel on your bed.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, she sinks into your sofa in pajamas.

"How're you feeling?" you ask brightly.

"Like a jackass."

You look over in surprise, finding her looking small and glum and fidgeting with her pajama drawstring.

"Why?"

"You think I'm scared to be naked, or shy, or insecure, or something like that, don't you."

"I.. did wonder," you shrug. "You always go away in the bathroom to change, even though you know I wouldn't watch or anything."

"No, I know you wouldn't, that's not why. I never change in front of you because I know how you feel, and I don't want to risk looking like I'm being a tease. But that's totally what I just did. And I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."

You blink. Maybe you missed some intriguing nuances of what just happened.

"You don't owe me an apology for that."

She looks at you for a moment, then away like she's amused at something. You look at the damp ends of hair sticking out of her bun.

"Sometimes I don't know if I'm glad or sad that this is the only way you know me."

"What do you mean?"

"I didn't used to be like this. All this.. fragile shit. You know, I actually used to be good in the sack?" she turns down the corners of her mouth in amused approval of her past self, and it makes you forget to argue her word choice a moment earlier.

"If that's meant to surprise me, it doesn't," you reply, unable to help but mirror her smile. You must hear her say more about this. "What were you like?"

"Not shy. I mean, I've always been private, but that's not shy. Not when I was alone with 'em. I was just.. cool. Confident. Normal," she shrugs. "We'd just go at it, no problem... it'd be hot, it'd be nice. We'd laugh." Her eyes go warm at something in her memory and it makes you smile. "It wouldn't be weird. I would never have _cried_. I wouldn't be all 'tee-hee, don't look at me' - hell, I'd go in the kitchen naked and get a snack, I didn't care. And when I thought about letting you see me, I thought some little piece of that old feeling might come back. Just to feel like... open, and.. attractive, and normal for a minute. I don't know."

"But it didn't feel that way?"

"No, it kind of did. I liked it."

"Then.. wonderful?" you shrug. "What's wrong with that?"

"It just doesn't seem right," she shrugs. "And some of this other stuff we've been doing..."

You can't quite pinpoint her objection.

"Because I'm a woman?"

"No, it's not that. I just don't want to be a bad friend to a really, really nice person. Special agreement or not, I don't like feeling like I might be leading you on or something."

"Well, the fact is that I don't feel led on," you reply. "And you're just going to have to trust me on that."

She looks up at you, unconvinced.

"Jane, I know there's nowhere to be led. I know perfectly well that fantasies can be things you would never want to act on in reality, and that sometimes things make you feel good that you really wouldn't want to take any further. That doesn't hurt my feelings or confuse me."

"Okay."

She is hard to read. You keep trying.

"You were hoping I'd find you attractive when you let me see you?"

You see her jaw tense but she smiles slightly.

"It's okay," you assure her. "I did. And you knew I did."

"I knew."

"And how did you feel about that?"

She blinks long, like she has to push the word out.

"Flattered."

"Well, I like that, and you certainly shouldn't feel badly about it." You smile and you make sure she sees it.

"Really?"

"Of course. I'm in support of anything that makes you feel good."

"It does make me feel good," she admits, looking right at you.

"Then would you like it if I was a little more forthcoming about those feelings in the future? At.. appropriate moments, of course."

"Maybe." She might be fighting a smile.

"Alright. In that case... you'd have my permission to elicit and enjoy those feelings in any way you desire. With full assurance that I'm not being misled and that you aren't a jackass."

She studies you for a moment. Since you essentially just granted her a license to sexually tease you, you might've expected the smile that grows on her lips to be a mischievous one. And it might be originally, but it gets tempered by something else, and then fades altogether.

"One thing," she says.

"Yes?"

"The other stuff we do. I mean, really do. The close stuff."

You smile automatically at the feeling of falling asleep with her right next to you. Or even at arms' reach, but with your fingertips linked.

"Yes?"

"That's separate. That stuff is..." she taps at her chest with her fingers, and you wait for the rest of the sentence until you realize that was it. "Okay?"

"Okay," you smile. Whatever that meant, you already knew it, and you think she can tell by looking at you.

"I love you, Maura. I really do. You're taking all my.. _issues_ way more seriously than I think I ever took them myself and as much as I hate being this way, it feels really nice to be taken that seriously."

"I love you too, but why aren't _you_ taking it seriously?" you ask gently.

"Because..." she shrugs, "do you ever honestly not know how you feel? Like maybe one day something just absolutely cripples you and another day you're like 'eh, it's not the end of the world' and you know for sure you were just wallowing and being a wuss that other day. But then you feel crippled again and you know for sure you were just putting on a brave face that other day... and you're never sure which way is real.."

That is uncomfortably familiar. How many months did you spend alternating productive days with ones spent sobbing in bed?

"I felt like that for a long time," you nod.

"Past tense?"

"I still can, sometimes. But in time it averaged out, for the most part."

"Anton?"

You nod.

"I don't think there has to be only one _real_ way you feel about things, Jane. Feelings are complex and transient. You should allow yourself to _feel_ them, but you can't try to define yourself by them. _Facts_ , you can always navigate by. Facts are consistent."

She looks fondly at you one moment, and then seems to go out of focus, somewhere far away the next.

"My problem is that my heart rules my head," she murmurs.

"They wouldn't give a badge to someone like that," you disagree, and she returns to you immediately. "Oh, you have a big heart, but you're more intelligent still, and a big heart isn't a weakness. Well... cardiomegaly can lead to congestive heart failure, but in the figurative sense, it's not a weakness."

She's looking at you fondly again.

She looks like she wants to say something, and a few times she looks like she's starting to. So you wait and try not to look too much like you're waiting.

The longer you wait the more you're expecting a long, halting speech. And although her voice is strained when she does speak, what you receive is small. Small and smooth like something pressed into your hand and your fingers being closed around it.

"You're my safe place."

Small and smooth like a gemstone.

"If you didn't hate hugs so much, I'd hug you." Moisture gathers in the corners of your eyes when you smile.

She leans forward and hugs you, and your mouth opens.

It's not like you've never hugged her before. Three times, right? Possibly four? Little social hugs. One point five seconds. Pat pat.

You feel her hair against the side of your face and her arms around you. You squeeze back. It's not quite the full-contact hold that you wished for, but it's a treat and you are touched.

"It means so much to me that you feel that way, Jane."

You let it end when she stops squeezing.

You remember those early days when she would fall asleep while you were talking, and you realize you've been her safe place since she barely knew you. She hadn't had one before you, perhaps not even herself.

"I want you to promise me something," you tell her.

"What."

"I love being your safe place, but it's more important you're able to be that for yourself. Promise me you'll be gentle to yourself when I'm not there to do it, okay?"

She stares back for a long time before nodding a little reluctantly. And you don't force her to clarify that she promises, because she takes promises seriously and the nod was good enough. She has never made you a flighty promise just to make you feel better, and that's one thing you like so much about her.

She accepts an offer of wine, even though her beer is in your refrigerator.

"I kind of wish you could've met... I don't know whether to say the real me or the old me," she says, taking a glass from you. "Guess it depends whether I think I can get back there again or not."

You don't want to be too hasty in promising her she can.

"We're all growing and changing every day. None of us can go back and be exactly who we were in the past," you reply.

She looks at you, not pleased, but possibly appreciative, and nods. You wonder if she has gotten a sugar-coated answer to a similar question in the past.

"But personally," you continue, "I'm happy to know _this_ you. Not just the you that's right in front of me, but the new one I know you're working on. She'll be all the best of the old, but wiser and stronger and improved."

She smiles back at you softly.

"Thanks, Maur."

And when you suspect she doesn't want you to be able to see her eyes anymore, she slouches down and leans her head on your shoulder and tells you to start the movie.


	11. To the wall (x)

**Sexy chapter alert.**

* * *

Normally, Jane wears her hair down to work, and only ties it back in a ponytail for crime scenes, or to go out in the field with Frost and Korsak.

But the other day, you mentioned that you think she looks sexy in her ponytail and sunglasses. And since then you have not seen her in anything but a ponytail.

It's dusk when you arrive together at your house, her sunglasses are still perched on top of her head as if she might need them at any moment.

"Think you'll be needing those anymore today?" you ask, smiling with a glance up at them as you switch on the lights in your kitchen and living room. "Now that we're indoors, after sundown?"

"I think so, actually, because it's just so darn _bright_ in here," she replies, flipping them down onto her face. They pull several errant tendrils of hair along with them, trapping them between her face and the lenses, but she completely ignores this and flashes you a cocky smile through the mess. You laugh. "Yeah, you like that?"

"It's a good look for you. Wine?"

She leans on your kitchen island and drums her thumbs thoughtfully.

"Mm. No thanks."

She watches you pour yourself a glass.

"I saw you looking at work today."

Your eyes dart to hers, and you can tell by her expression - what you can see of it - that this is not a complaint.

Indeed, the deceased was not the only body you examined thoroughly at this morning's crime scene. The detective is wearing her charcoal suit today - probably her best fitted one - and a crisp white button-down shirt. You like that combination, especially when she pushes up the sleeves of her blazer so you also get to see a taste of her forearms.

She's leaning on your island in a rather commanding pose, which you also like. The comedic edge of the mess of hair trapped in front of her face is the only thing preventing it from being sexy.

"I didn't mean for it to be that obvious." The two of you may have reached an understanding that it's alright for you to entertain certain thoughts about her, but that doesn't mean it's something that ought to be outwardly noticeable.

"You weren't obvious. I'm just good at detecting things."

Unable to bear it any longer, you set down your glass and move closer to her, sliding the sunglasses from her face.

"Got too sexy for ya?" she jokes smugly, allowing you to brush the hair out of her face.

"It's very distracting," you smile. You cannot fit these loose hairs back into her ponytail, but you can at least sweep them back. Deciding you've had your fun, you fold her sunglasses on the counter instead of putting them back on her face.

You appraise your work. Much better.

"Now," you resume both your prior topic and your wine, "what exactly did you detect?"

" _I_ think..." she squints, "that you have kind of a cop thing you never told me about."

"No I don't. What makes you think that?"

"You like it when I flash my badge," she states matter-of-factly. And she steps back and pulls open one side of her blazer, revealing the badge on her hip, to which your eyes immediately dart. "See, watch. _Sha-bow!_ See? You look every single time."

"I do like when you do that," you grin.

"And that's not a cop thing?" she crosses her arms, looking smug. "So what, you just like shiny objects like a parakeet?"

"I work in a building full of police officers with badges, and I'm not attracted to any of them," you answer thoughtfully. "It's not the badge, per se. It's not that you're a cop.. it has more to do with your strength and physicality and how you carry yourself."

"Hm. So you don't want me to arrest you for being bad."

Cop roleplay? You hadn't expected her to like that.

"That's not really among my fantasies," you admit with a raised eyebrow, going to the refrigerator. "But if you wan-"

"Oh, thank God," her shoulders relax a little. "I thought maybe this was heading for some naughty cop handcuffs shit."

"Oh," you smile. "Me too. I was going to be a little surprised if you were into that kind of roleplay."

"I'm not. It's too close to a lot of.. really unsexy stuff."

You nod in understanding, bringing out a carton of blueberries to quiet your growling stomach, because you aren't about to derail this conversation with talk of dinner.

Truth be told, you would not be _totally_ opposed to the handcuffs part.. although that has nothing to do with the cop theme.

You try on the idea of cold metal clicking around your wrists, but you try to conjure up a Detective Rizzoli who wants to restrain you, and you think about the scars on her hands and what restraint must mean to her, and it loses its appeal.

"What _is_ among your fantasies?"

"Involving you?"

"Mm-hm."

The corners of her mouth are curled confidently, and her eyes are trained on you with playful interest. This is the first time she's initiated a directly sexual conversation outside of either of your darkened bedrooms. It pleasantly surprises you.

But when you search your mental files, you find your brand new Jane Rizzoli sex fantasy folder empty.

"Well, I don't really have a staple fantasy involving you because I haven't been open to thinking about you that way until very recently," you admit, pulling a little too hard on the stubborn plastic lid of the carton and causing a couple of berries to bounce out onto your kitchen floor. "Oops. Don't move, it's right by your foot."

You get on your knees to retrieve the fugitive berries, and when you straighten up, whatever you were about to say flies out of your mind.

You freeze, looking directly at the seam of her slacks. Your eyes trace it up to her circular, heavy steel buckle. And suddenly you are aware of your own heartbeat.

Perhaps you do have one fantasy to add to that folder. To lean forward just a little bit and to skim your lips along the warm seam of those gray slacks.

The fabric is dark and you wonder if your lipstick would show on it. You imagine pressing one firm kiss at the very apex of her legs, and sending her back to work in the bullpen with one bright, perfect lip print there, on fabric light enough to show it. A thrill runs through you that is electric at the top and wet at the end. You glance up, and she's looking down at you with confused amusement.

"Everything okay?"

"Uh-huh," you nod, absentmindedly raising a blueberry to your mouth. She reaches forward and stills your hand, two of her fingertips grazing your lips momentarily. Why? You don't know. You like it.

"Floor berries.."

What? Oh. That was not supposed to be erotic. She was just stopping you from eating that blueberry off the floor. You imagine her having left her fingers by your mouth a moment longer, and you having parted your lips around one of them.

What if you had? On your knees in front of her, looking up into her eyes, sucking softly on her fingertip. What would she have done?

You take a deep breath, pulling yourself out of this tailspin.

Due to many nights with Jane keeping your mind elsewhere, you realize that you've neglected to actually have sex in a while - not to mention your libido just happens to be at its peak. You make a mental note to remedy that soon, but right now you need to get a hold of yourself.

She extends both hands down to you and you accept her help getting to your feet.

"Thank you." You drain the rest of your wine, take a few non-floor berries in your hand and bring them over to the sofa. You need to sit down.

She follows you.

"Do I get to know what that was about?"

"Pardon me. I'm a little.. distracted today," you slip a berry into your mouth. "You uh, look particularly good in this suit."

She stands next to the arm of the couch where you're sitting, and you wonder if she's deliberately giving you another clear view of the area you were just staring at.

You like the smooth plane of her abdomen encased in a crisp button-down shirt, disappearing behind that simple, thick leather belt. You like that area of her body especially, and all the articles attached to her belt. It draws your eye to her hips and makes you think of power.

Powerful hips.

"This suit? I wear this all the time."

"I know," you reply, placing another berry delicately into your mouth. You press it against the roof of your mouth with your tongue until it bursts with juice.

Your eyes return to her belt buckle and you try to remember if you've ever seen her in a different belt. If not, you don't care. You like it. The metal is likely warm from her body heat. You would like to unbuckle it and... or maybe you'd just like to feel it pressed up against you. Very firmly. Yes, that's what you'd like.

She had described herself as a confident lover. You can certainly picture that. Strong and confident.

Strong hips rolling hard against you.

She glances down curiously at her own pants.

"Do I have a mustard stain or something?"

"No," you reply innocently.

"Are you horny?" she asks, amused.

"I am experiencing a spike in estrogen and testosterone at this point in my hormonal cycle, and it does tend to make me a bit.. easily aroused," you explain.

She steps past you and sits on the other end of the couch.

"Penny for your thoughts."

You look over at her.

"Are you sure?"

"We always talk about what I'd want to do. I'm curious what _you_ want to do."

"What I want to do... with you?"

"If that's what you're thinking about."

"It is."

So. Here you are with not only a license to fantasize about her, but with an audience as well. And you're overwhelmed by the open-endedness of it, and the limitless possibilities.

Start simple. Start in reality.

You imagine the two of you back at this morning's crime scene. What would you have done if you didn't _have_ to keep your eyes and your mind off of her? Or your hands? Or your mouth?

You shift slightly in your seat and your eyes shut hard when you feel yourself move slickly against your underwear.

Already.

Are you going to tell her that you want her to touch you? Fill you?

She misunderstands your silence as hesitation.

"Sorry, not if you'd feel weird," she adds. "I just thought since we said-"

"I don't know if you'd like it," you blurt.

"Why, is it kinky?"

"No. It just wouldn't be... like what we've discussed before."

Compared to the sorts of things she tells you for her fantasies, you'd almost be ashamed to tell her what you're thinking - and you don't even know what you're thinking yet. Not that it would be anything filthy or uncaring, but your urges are certainly not limited to gentle petting and kissing. You want her to make you come.

"I wouldn't expect it to be."

"I just don't want to overwhelm you."

"Try me. What's got you going right now?"

You give in.

"The way you look in your suit."

She smirks faintly.

"So what do you want to do with me and my suit?"

You close your eyes for a moment.

"I'd like you to take me somewhere.. I don't know where exactly, I don't like the idea of a public restroom or anything. In theory the urgency of it is arousing, but it'd be so unprofessional, not to mention the bacterial-"

"It's a fantasy, Maura..."

"Yes. Well, let's say you know someplace private to take me in a hurry."

"My cruiser?"

Something about car sex has always been a little distasteful to you.

"No, that won't work for this."

"Ok. A private.. room, somewhere. What happens when we get there?"

You bite your lip.

"It isn't soft, Jane."

"I don't care."

Maybe she won't be scandalized that your fantasy isn't slow and chaste. Maybe she doesn't want that. Maybe she's hoping yours will be more like what hers used to be. Maybe she would like to hear about herself as a confident lover.

"You press me against the wall the instant we get in there. And we're kissing and our hands are everywhere."

"And?"

"And you're in control, and you're strong, and... my head rolls back when you kiss at my neck and push your hand up under my bra."

You imagine her hand palming your breast greedily. Oh, her palms. Her scars. It's the first time you've thought of that. Could you feel them on your breasts? Would it be in poor taste to hope so? Is it wrong that that thought made you wetter?

"Uh-huh," she murmurs.

"And my nipples are so hard and I'm so wet for you." Nothing about that sentence was fantasy.

You take a deep breath. Maybe this is a bit much.

"Uh-huh." You feel the couch cushion moving slightly and notice she's started bouncing one knee.

"And I want you to touch me so badly, and I know you're going to do it for me... and I wrap a leg around your waist. Oh, I forgot to specify I'm wearing a skirt in this."

"You're going to wrinkle a fancy skirt?"

"When you feel how badly I need you you understand why I would't even care if you tore it. And you don't make me wait... you sink your fingers inside me."

"How many?"

"Two. Then three, when I ask you. And it feels so good that I'm moaning out loud. And you hold me there, up against the wall, and you keep kissing me, partly to try to keep me quiet while you..." you were going to say while she fucks you, but you try to think of a less explicit alternative and you cannot, so you leave the sentence unfinished.

You have already communicated the crux of it, and describing it to her in further detail would be gratuitous anyway. This is already a lot to say for the first time you're sharing anything.

You don't tell her the part where maybe this is at work, and you don't care that the rest of the floor can probably hear you moaning her name. Or the part where she grinds her hips against you furiously, coming in her buckled slacks with a deep stoic grunt.

No, you would not _really_ want to have sex at work. But it is a decent fantasy to keep on file.

"And I'm good at this?"

"You're so good. You're strong." You imagine holding onto her while she drives into you, fast and deep and hard. "Tireless."

You look over and she's staring straight ahead at the tv even though it's off, her face pink and her eyes wide. Clearly aroused. Knee bouncing rapidly.

"Do you come?"

The depth of her voice, and what you're going to reply, thrills you.

"So hard you have to hold me up."

You hear her inhale and exhale a slightly shaky breath.

"And aft-" Stop. It's gratuitous.

"What?"

"Never mind."

Tell her. Telling her would excite you so much. And maybe excite her.

Or disgust her. And you don't _need_ to be more excited. There is no release waiting for you at the end of this.

"Tell me," she insists. "What happens after?"

Don't tell her.

You're going to tell her.

"You let me lick your fingers."

Voicing it sends a warm flush and a trickle through you.

Her bouncing knee freezes for a second and starts again.

"The ones I just...?"

"Yeah."

"You like that?"

"I like that a lot." Tasting yourself on your lover is a very reliable turn-on of yours.

You glance over at her fingers, resting on the thigh of her bouncing leg. Long and slender. You picture them fresh from pleasing you, glossed with-

Stop. You aren't doing yourself any favors here.

Your body is tense and aching for release. You forbid yourself to move your hips because with the slightest friction against your underwear you might climax right here on the couch in front of Jane and oh no, that's an exciting thought as well.

You're just going to have to excuse yourself, that's all. You're allowed to go to the bathroom in your own house. She'll know what you're really doing. You don't care. You're only embarrassed that you let your arousal get to that point.

Jane takes a deep breath, slaps her knees and gets up suddenly. You look up, afraid you've put her off.

"Time for my shower," she announces brightly, and without waiting for a reply, toddles off toward the stairs with a slightly unusual gait. You laugh as you watch her go.

You aren't one for jumping to conclusions, but it seems very unlikely that showering is really all she needs to do so urgently. She's beaten you to it.

Listening hard, you make absolutely certain she's really upstairs before you take advantage of the privacy. You don't have long. It doesn't take long.

Even though she's well out of earshot, you bite your lips together to stop yourself from making any noise. You fail.

When she returns to the living room, she finds you sitting prim and proper and relaxed with new underwear and hands smelling of lemon verbena soap.

She returns your knowing smile, and up close, you can tell that she has just cried. You don't comment.

* * *

Saturday you have the night to yourself, and an appetite for a woman.

You consider a few numbers in your contact list, and you settle on the only one you're sure won't ask you where you got this appetite. You wouldn't betray Jane's confidence even to someone who has no idea who she is.

It's been a long time since you've even spoken, but you've had an understanding for years, and when one of you calls the other, you know why.

Faye is what they call a good egg. Dignified and reserved in public, revealing no hint of the nature of your relationship in private. She feels like a character out of a Western, like you're old friends with the town's level-headed madam whose heart of gold is a vault of secrets, including what makes you moan.

You meet for drinks. You don't really _want_ the drink and she wouldn't insist on it either, but making a booty call with no preamble at all would be too déclassé. She's intelligent, certainly not a bore to have a conversation with, but it's just not the part of the evening you're eager for.

Then finally, it is. And you drop yourself nude into her plush bedding that smells like cedar and sage.

You feel so overripe and her mouth is such a relief that you are unusually vocal. She pauses to look up at you, quizzically pleased, and you laugh.

Oh, is she talented.


	12. Flatline (tw)

**Hey guys. Remember how I warned for sexual assault themes. This is the chapter where that's going to crop up. I'm avoiding being descriptive in this story so everything will not be totally spelled out, but this part will get emotional & difficult. I am trying to be sensitive to something extremely uncomfortable here so for real, trigger warning. **

* * *

Beneath you, she closes her eyes as if she's summoning determination, and you wonder what on earth she's about to ask you to do. But she says nothing.

Rather, you watch her pull her arms from her sides where they always stay, bring them up, and hold her fists loosely against her chest. Like she might want to push you off of her. But she doesn't.

The one minute mark passes. Formerly, she would be in visible distress from letting you stay above her that long. But she's improving.

Three minutes, then five minutes became your goal. As far as you can tell, she now only has a little difficulty when you first move into position, but then relaxes somewhat the longer you stay there.

Her hands move again. You watch her slide them out from her shoulders and open her fists just a little. And she wills the back of one hand to press against the sheets, and then the other. And when you look back to her face she's frowning with intense anxiety again.

You look from one rigid palm to the other, and your eyes widen when you recognize what this position must be and why it's upsetting her.

When she opens her eyes, you force a supportive smile onto your face.

"This is gonna be the last part of this I'm gonna ask you for." She's trying to force her voice to sound normal.

"What?"

"Hold.." you see her jaw clenching repeatedly. "Hold my hands down."

Your stomach sinks. You know she's only asking for this because it terrifies her.

"You don't..." you shake your head. "You don't ever have to do that for anyone, Jane. No one who loves you will expect..."

"It's not for anyone, it's for me. I'm always gonna hate this..." She swallows hard.

"Then why?"

"Because I want to never do this, because I _choose_ not to. Not because he made it so I _can't_."

You are not happy, but you understand. You don't know if you'd do the same thing in her place, but you aren't in her place, and you promised you'd help her in any way she asked.

"Okay," you breathe. "Hold and do what?"

"Nothing. Just hold."

"I mean, what do I do if you pull? Is the goal to.. to endure it, or to see that you can pull away any time you want?"

The last thing you want is to restrain her if she panics, not that you think you really could hold her.

"Let me go if I pull, but I'm gonna try not to."

You reach up and touch her right hand lightly, watching her reaction.

"Is that okay?"

"Yeah." She doesn't look entirely okay.

You scoot upwards a bit so that you can hold both of her hands without really pressing your full weight on them. You don't want to do that to her, at least not at first.

"C'mon. I won't break your nose, I promise."

"That's not what I'm worried about."

You shift your weight. And you grasp her wrists, the way you might playfully hold someone's hands down to kiss them. You've done that lots of times, but this time it feels monstrous instead of sexy.

Her hands immediately contract into tight fists, shaking in your grasp.

"Jane.."

"I'm okay."

She hates it. You hate it. You see her wanting to writhe a little, trying to keep calm. Tears of stress brim on her lashes.

"That's ten seconds." You loosen your grasp to almost nothing. "That's enough?"

"No. I can take it." She looks right into your eyes. "C'mon, I trust you."

If she didn't trust you, your nose _would_ probably be broken by now.

That gives you an idea. What if you let her overpower you? She could easily, even from this position. Even if you weren't _letting_ her.

So you firm up your grasp again.

"Jane? Instead of us counting time... _you_ end this. Any time you want."

"What? You'll stop any time I say," she points out. And you love that she knows that.

"Of course. But I want you to know you could overpower me if you had to."

A weak smirk distracts her only briefly from her anxiety.

"I could kick your ass if I had to."

"We both know that," you agree. And frankly that's probably a major reason she trusts you to do this. "But I want you to feel yourself do it. You could have me on my back in a second if you wanted to."

You hear your own double entendre a few seconds late, but now is not the time.

The exercise would be good for her psychologically, you think. You want her to have the muscle memory of gaining victory over a vulnerable situation.

She looks up at you and you nod at her.

"Show me."

You aren't weak, but there's absolutely no contest between you. In a matter of seconds, she has pivoted out of your grasp and flipped you forcefully onto your back on the corner of the bed, your positions now reversed. If this were more than an exercise, you would now receive some kind of incapacitating strike.

She holds your arms down only for an instant, just long enough to illustrate that she can, and then removes her hands from you entirely. She looks down into your eyes through the black curtain of her hair, breathing deep from the sudden exertion.

Although she isn't quite smiling, you can tell that felt good to her.

"You're strong," you smile up at her. That is a compliment she always likes. You want her to feel strong.

This could be arousing, if you let your mind focus on the wrong aspects of it.

"You weren't trying your hardest, were you?"

You shake your head.

"Then I wanna do it again."

* * *

It's the ninth time you discuss Jane's fantasy that it happens.

You've been progressing further, talking longer into the night than you have before.

For the first time, she has directed your fantasy touch between her legs. And you are delighted.

You draw it out. You earn the best responses when you talk about being gentle and unhurried, and how much _you_ love what you're doing. You tell her how good and firm and sweet it was when you stroked her, just like she needed.

And she's hanging on your every word, filling in more of her own, telling you how good it felt, getting shorter of breath.

You know that her arms are usually at her sides but now that things have gone this far, you really can't be sure she isn't touching herself under the sheets, just like you're dying to do.

In the dark your ears strain for clues. You might be hearing a faint rustling sound, or your brain might be falsifying the auditory data you want so badly. Either way, you're incredibly wet, and she must be too.

Her fantasies with you have never included orgasm before. But it's never included you touching her that way before, either. This is a night of firsts.

You want to make her come, even if it isn't real.

So after you spend a long time telling her how good and how soft, you say it. You tell her that you stroked her until she came.

It's not that Jane says "no," but her tone that makes you know immediately that you've done the wrong thing.

It had been presumptuous of you to suggest when she climaxed in her own fantasy. You should not have done that.

"Oh - you didn't," you correct yourself. But there's only silence, and you feel your hairs standing on end.

It's the silence before a flatline.

"No I fucking didn't."

You flinch, hating to hear her voice suddenly so different, loud and hot and strained, directed at you.

"You- you didn't," you repeat. "I'm sorry."

There's fumbling and the bed shifting and something falling over on her nightstand before the light comes on with the shade askew.

And she is just what you were afraid you'd see, up against the headboard and drawing her knees up to her chest like she's just come out of a nightmare. Frowning intensely. Eyes big. Breaths getting louder and shallower.

This is already worse than you've seen her after any nightmare.

 _"No."_

Alarm and regret are unfurling in your chest like a black ink drop in water. And the more your arousal fades away, the more you realize what a fool you are.

"I'm sorry, I was wrong, I shouldn't have said that."

She looks right at you, and you have never been the recipient of a glare like this - terror melded seamlessly with fuming anger. You feel it sizzling on you like the focal point of a magnifying glass in the sun. You wish you could shrink away from it and disappear.

Oh, this is bad.

" _I_ decide when," she insists furiously. Shaking.

You nod quickly, eyes blurry with tears of regret.

"I'm so sorry," you beg. "It was a mistake.. I shouldn't have sa-"

"That doesn't... not supposed to happen unless _I_ _want_ to," she spits. _"I didn't want to."_

"Please, Jane, I'm so sorry."

You don't know if you've ever felt so stupid.

Too many 'successful' encounters with Jane have left you horny and complacent and careless. This is supposed to be about helping her heal from trauma, on strictly her terms, and you've gone out of bounds and upset her instead.

And, unbelievably, you make a second stupid mistake. Your hand reaches out, as if on its own, intending to touch her hand reassuringly.

"Don't," she shies away from you, "fucking touch me."

You whimper, moving back to the far side of the bed and closing your eyes because if that made her any angrier, you don't know if you could stand her looking at you. "I'm sorry."

This is the end of all this. It has to be. Maybe even the end of your entire friendship.

How could she look at you that way and then be your friend ever again?

" _I_ decide," she keeps breathing through her teeth.

"You decide," you nod, tears streaking your cheeks, having no idea what else to say. What could you possibly say?

"I didn't want to," she says hoarsely, oblivious to the tears falling down her face. Shaking. "I didn't- an-nd how could you think I _wanted_ -" she seethes.

You shake your head. At a loss. Crying and apologizing even though you know she isn't hearing it.

Certainly you see your mistake. But you wish you could understand why it's this bad.

It was her own fantasy for you to touch her that way. She had been enjoying it. Yes, she _should_ have been the one to say when, but was orgasm not the natural conclusion you were both building towards?

Why would she be this enraged at the idea of having had an orgasm? As if it's a terrible accusation?

"I hated it. _I hated it_ , that d-doesn't fucking _happen -_ "

Abruptly you stop crying, but you still have to blink the tears out of your eyes so you can see again. Hers are shut tightly, streaming tears, and somewhere behind them she is suffering so much it breaks your heart.

Maybe this isn't making sense because she isn't talking about you. Isn't talking about tonight.

Oh. Oh, no. Maybe you do know what this is about.

You wish you had a clearer memory of the statistics you've read about this. Could they have been at all accurate anyway? How many people would report it?

"Jane?" you ask very gently. You just want to find out whether she is even here with you, hearing you at all.

And her eyes snap open, right onto yours. And her anger sinks into terror. Like she heard what you're thinking, just from the way you said her name.

"Sometimes... that happens to people," you try carefully. "It's the autonomic nervous system - it's a completely involuntary response..."

She curls in on herself, spilling a fresh wave of tears and breathing harder, whimpering something you can't make out.

"It doesn't mean they didn't hate it. No one would think that," you wipe your eyes, wishing your voice were steadier. "It's just the body trying to protect itsel-"

Suddenly she turns but is sick before she's able to make it out of your bed. And you are stuck, wanting so badly to try to soothe her but not daring to touch her.

"Okay, that- that's okay," you try. "That's alright. Let me-"

"No," she bites back, angling herself away. Visibly torn between wanting to flee, hyperventilating and humiliated, and not wanting to leave you to deal with it.

You want her to be able to flee if that's what she wants, but don't want to take another piece of control away from her. So you just follow her and your sheets helplessly down the hallway, your it's okays and I'm sorrys falling on deaf ears.

Barefoot in your laundry room, you know you can't stop her so you're trying to help, but you're mostly just crying watching her have a full-fledged panic attack while trying to see straight enough to pour laundry detergent into the machine. You hold your breath when the liquid misses its mark and dribbles a blue dotted zig-zag on the floor. She slams the bottle down and releases a sound that makes you hurt so badly inside that you wince.

"Please," you beg her, "It's okay, please don't worry."

And you get on your hands and knees to clean it up so that she won't have to, but she also wants to do it so you won't have to. And you're both on the floor wiping up blue soap and your own fat teardrops that are spattering on the hardwood alongside it.

You don't know whether you ought to be reassuring her or begging forgiveness, because this is a pie chart of anger and embarrassment and fear where the size of the slices keeps changing. Does she hate you? Is she afraid of what you might think?

She slumps back against your humming washing machine, sobbing as quietly as she can, face hidden. A condensed mass of shaking fingers and knees and hair stuck to wet skin.

It hurts like a twisting knife that you can't wrap your arms around her.

"Darling, please," you cry. What are you even asking her for? To feel okay? To let you hold her - prioritizing yourself?

"I'm sorry," she strains out. "I'm sorry, Maura."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," you shake your head. "Nothing, Jane, _I'm_ sorry."

"Go back t-to bed. I'm sorry."

"I don't-"

"Please go," she insists more loudly. And as much as it hurts you have to accept that maybe your presence is upsetting, not soothing. You are not her safe place right now. You don't know if you will be again in the future.

You want so badly to kiss her on the head once before you go, but you'd better not. Crying silently, you respect her wishes and leave her there on the floor.

It's like you've never seen your own house before. You have no idea where to go. You find yourself back in your bedroom only because that's where she had said to go.

You make up your bed and then just stand at the foot of it, looking toward your doorway, worrying and listening.

Then your feet hurt, so you worry while sitting on the bed. Then you worry while reclining.

Then it's 5:10AM and you hate yourself for having dozed off, and you don't know how you know, but you know she isn't in the house.

The guest room is empty.

Downstairs your sheets are folded, as neatly as Jane knows how to fold a fitted sheet, on top of the washer.

You cry for her.

* * *

 **This is something NOBODY wants to talk about, but it does happen and is unimaginably traumatic, exponentially so if reacted to inappropriately by others. I'm not going to drag this out into chapters of melodrama (this was the worst part). My only intention is to address with compassion something I haven't seen before in ff. Talking & healing to come. **


	13. Come sleep (tw)

**Some angst and fluff here before actual discussion in the next chapter, so mild tw still in effect. Thanks for sticking with this.**

* * *

Your heart races when you see her at work, as if you feared she might have vanished not only from your house but from the city, or even from existence. Her behavior toward you passes as normal to everyone else, but you wait and wait for her eyes to meet yours, and they never do.

She doesn't come see you in the morgue; you can only see her upstairs where there are others present, where you can't say anything. You talk briefly about the case and only about the case. It's clear that she means to leave no opening for anything else.

She doesn't ask you for lunch. She goes home after work without calling. Night falls.

Though you don't even share it with her every night, your bed seems vast and empty without her.

You picture what she might be doing alone in her apartment right now. At best, distracting herself with television and semi-responsible drinking. At worst, crying and hyperventilating and pacing with all the lights on all night long. You hope not huddled somewhere crying, like by your washing machine - a sight that's burned into your memory. Along with the look in her eyes at the moment when she knew you knew.

Well, to be fair, she never actually _confirmed_ it, but her reaction leaves little room for other conclusions.

Your reading on the topic doesn't reveal much new information, and the estimates vary so widely. Rare cases, ten percent of victims, over half - who could really know? Would any statistic reassure her anyway? Has she not already read all this herself?

It hurts to think what she must be going through - what she's been going through for years - and alone, most likely. The part that's common knowledge would be hard enough to cope with on its own; you cannot fathom how disturbing this aspect must be for her.

All you want to do is hold her tight. Clearly, she doesn't want that.

Is she angry at you? Or is she embarrassed? Or just so upset by the memories you've stirred up that she wants to withdraw?

It seems safe to rule out anger, at least as her primary emotion. You've legitimately gotten on her wrong side before, and you know that an angry Jane is confrontational, not avoidant. If she were mad, you would expect her to burst into your office with her interrogation glare and a list of grievances.

Could she be afraid of what you think? Embarrassment is understandable even though she has nothing to be ashamed of, but she couldn't _possibly_ entertain the idea that you might have any ugly assumptions about this. Right?

You text her that you love her and keep your phone in your hand so you'll be sure to feel it vibrate when she responds. Morning comes and you have no messages.

The same thing happens that day, and the next, and the next.

Each breaks yesterday's record for the most tired you've ever seen her look. You want to respect her space, but you're getting worried about her health.

Today you're going to go upstairs and find her. And if she doesn't want to say a word, fine, but you're going to make sure she eats something. And if you can't find her, you're going to ask the others to make sure they're looking after her for you.

You ring for the elevator and when it arrives, it contains Detective Korsak.

"Oh, hey Doc, I was just coming down to see you."

"The toxicology report still isn't in yet," you assure him.

"Not about that. Have a minute?"

You smile politely, torn.

"You were on your way to Jane," he guesses, catching the impatience you were trying to hide.

"Yes," you admit.

"I'll save you some trouble." His eyes follow a lab technician who passes you in the hall. "Your office?"

"Y-yes," you gesture toward your doorway, and follow him there, your heart sinking a little. "What do you mean? Did she say she doesn't want to see me?"

"No," he answers, scratching his neck. "She's just.. on the farm."

"What?"

Is that an expression you aren't familiar with? He studies you, but you aren't sure what he's evaluating.

"Do you know what's going on with her?"

"Something... has been bothering her," you reply uselessly. "She hasn't talked to me."

He knows you too well not to notice you didn't quite deny knowing. But he's also good about knowing when to leave things alone.

"What do you mean about a farm?" you ask.

He sits down on your couch, and you wonder if you should feel sorry that you didn't invite him to. You take the chair.

"She has a place she goes. I thought maybe you'd know about it."

"Where, what do you mean?"

What farm could she visit within her lunch hour? What would she do there?

"She used to disappear at lunch. There's a place in the building she'd go and just.. be alone. She doesn't know I know that."

He hasn't specified where, and you think that's because he wants to respect Jane's secret. You like him for that. You won't ask where and you hope he likes you for that, too.

"A.. farm?"

"That was her code word to tell me she was going somewhere, so we wouldn't be looking for her." He taps all his fingertips together. "This must be a doozy, 'cause she hasn't given me that code since she was first back at work right after Hoyt."

You angle yourself so that your hair blocks whatever your face is doing in response to that.

"Oh."

"Is it something between you guys? I mean, we don't know if we should try to talk to her, Frost and me, or if the best thing we could do is.. not."

You love that they care, but you can't begin to express how much Jane would not want to talk to them about this.

"I'm afraid it is somewhat my doing," you confess. "But it looks like all she wants right now from everyone including me is space."

He nods.

You almost thank him. But you aren't sure you have the authority to be thanking someone on her behalf who's actually known her longer than you have. Then again, he came to you like you're the authority on her. Are you?

"Are _you_ okay?" he asks, surprising you. You have no one to turn to about very personal matters when Jane is off limits, and you are both slightly embarrassed that he knows that, and touched that he asked.

You can no more discuss this with him than Jane can.

Oh, you do have questions for him - but ones that you can never ask. What he found in that basement. Why she had been there alone. How she was when he found her. Did she put on a brave face. Who pulled the scalpels out. Was it all EMTs and uniforms and cameras and statements or did anyone just hold her for a while if she wanted that.

You wish you could hold her right now.

"I will be when she is," you smile.

"Okay." Seeing that he has done what he can do, he rises.

"Wait - what is the significance of the farm, though?"

He smiles patiently. You know you've gotten stuck on a peripheral detail, but you're curious and you can't think of a way to ever casually ask her this.

"She never sat down with me and explained it," he shrugs. "But my best guess is, once she told me the family dog died when she was real little, and Angela told her what you tell a kid. You know - that he went to a nice farm in the country to run and play."

You blink. Is this something children are told?

"There's no farm. It just means an undisclosed location."

"I see."

First you were a little sad that you didn't know about this place she goes, but the more you consider it, maybe it's a good thing. She's never had to hide away from you. Not before now.

You're sorry that she's hurting and you're sorry that it's kind of your fault. You miss your friend.

You try to craft the perfect text to her. One that will explain that you're dying to see her and you love and respect her and you're so sorry and please forgive you and she's wonderful and needn't be embarrassed and she doesn't have to explain anything to you that she doesn't want to and you just want to hold her until it hurts a little less or she's welcome to just come fall asleep on her own side of your bed without a word...

It's a disjointed paragraph that fills your entire phone screen. You delete it, and spend twice as long composing one more succinct.

 _Please forgive me. Come sleep. I love you._

But you delete that too, because when you look at your texts with Jane the entire screen is your own little bubbles. Just more of your own 'I love you's stamped with different dates.

Maybe you have an even more succinct way of saying this.

You know where there's at least one mug in the break area, and that there's a pitcher of 2% milk for coffee in the cafe. Just before you expect her back from the farm, and the other detectives back from lunch, you microwave some milk in that mug and leave it on her desk.

For the rest of the day your eyes dart hopefully to your office doorway whenever you see movement there, but each time you're disappointed that it isn't her.

* * *

You've been in bed for no longer than 30 seconds when your doorbell rings, and you spring up so eagerly that you practically throw your book across the room. You'll only check the peep hole because she would want you to.

There she is, in her pajama bottoms and sneakers and a larger, puffier winter coat than you were aware she owned, looking more haggard than you've ever seen her, and still staring at the spot where your doorknob had been.

"Jane," you say, so that she can hear that you're smiling, because she isn't looking at you. And you usher her in from the cold.

She keeps her arms folded across herself, just the way you'd found her, staring ahead like she's too tired even to lift her eyes.

 _HUG HER,_ your amygdala is ordering you, and your prefrontal cortex vetoes, _NO, YOU CAN'T_. In the midst of that argument you realize you've missed her saying something, and you decipher it only afterward as "I guess I'm being childish," and she thinks you have not answered, and that she has to try again.

"I didn't know what to say." Her voice is so raspy. You envision her words being written by a pen running out of ink.

You didn't want her here for an explanation. You don't even need her to look you in the eye yet. You just wanted her to have a safe place, if you can still be that for her.

"You don't need to say anything," you shake your head. "All you need is rest."

You see subtle relief on a face worn from stress and fatigue. She's more likely had eight hours of sleep total since she ran from you, than per night.

She shuts her eyes tightly, failing to keep a tear from streaking down her cheek.

Her voice comes out small and wavering and completely hoarse.

"I'm so tired."

She bows just a little toward you, and you've wrapped her in your arms already.

"Come to bed, darling." That just slipped out. Is it the first time? You don't care. It's a little oxytocin hit. Darling darling darling. "No talk. Just come sleep, okay?"

Her arms aren't squeezing tight around you like yours are around her, but you feel a weight on the back of your shirt and you know her fingers are clutching and hanging on the fabric. She's leaning on you and you think if you stayed still for a few more seconds, she might fall asleep on her feet.

You take her cold hand and lead her to your bedroom as if she doesn't know the way.

She drops herself on the edge of your bed and lets you help pull that coat off while she nudges off her sneakers. Because she is shivering, your first and very strong instinct is to get in bed and hold her and keep her warm, but in case she doesn't feel like being held, you quickly grab the softest cardigan from your closet and help her arms into the sleeves and wrap her snugly in it.

As if you expect to find that she's running a fever, you touch her cheek. She turns slightly into your touch and her eyes roll closed like she's succumbing to anesthesia. You just stay like that for a moment before you remember she needs to lie down and really go to sleep before she falls asleep like this.

To soothe any sting of removing your hand, you bend and kiss the top of her head.

And you watch her bleary eyes open and start to venture slowly higher until they finally risk a look into yours. There alongside pain and fatigue, you find shy gratitude, relief, and not just a little love. She finds what you wonder if she's aware is the most warm and genuine smile you've ever smiled.

You tuck her snugly into your bed, and just as you complete that process by leaning down to whisper goodnight and kiss her forehead, you remember you already did that ten seconds ago. Oh well.

Intending to allow her all the space she wants, you climb into your own side of the bed.

And you lay there silently, once you're overjoyed to have her safe in your bed, and pained to have her so close but still out of your reach.

You hear her over there, still not at rest. Re-situating herself time after time. Breathing a little irregularly.

Finally and rather suddenly, she moves over to you until she's resting against your shoulder.

Immediately you turn into her and gather her closer and tighter into your arms than you've ever held her before. Lower in the bed than you, she lays her head on your chest and wraps an arm around you. And even though this is not exactly a happy occasion, you are awed by how wonderful it feels. You smooth her tangled mane of hair and rest your chin on top of it.

You feel.. protective.

People have come to you for pleasure, perhaps comfort, occasionally companionship. But no one has ever, ever come to you for protection before. You cradle her head against your heart and you let this foreign and solemn and wonderful sensation seep through you.

Has someone ever held onto you like this not because they like your breasts, but because your bosom is their hiding place from the world? Have you ever been someone's protector? No one has ever treated you as if you had any value as one, and you have never expected them to. Physically, that would never be your role.

Of the two of you, Jane would absolutely be the protector - she is so every day in little subconscious gestures. From the way her arm raises in front of you when she senses a potential danger, to the steadying hand offered automatically when you encounter steep steps at a crime scene in stilettos.

And yet, that is undeniably your role in this embrace. You are the protector of that great big, terribly scarred but terribly strong heart of hers.

Your pride in this job title gives Chief Medical Examiner a run for its money.

Although there's no sound or even movement beyond small tremors throughout her body, you know that she is crying. You feel the warmth against the collar of your pajamas. She's too exhausted to actively cry; tears are simply seeping out. And you wouldn't want her to try to keep them in.

You hold her tight against you like you can make the anxiety wick from her bloodstream into yours. There is no medical basis for that idea. Maybe if you press her against your own heartbeat for long enough, it will lull her and hers will sync.

Threading your fingers through her hair, you massage softly at the tense muscles at the base of her skull. Very gradually, you feel her relax into you.

And you think this armful of sharp bony angles and tears and anxiety, for whom you have the most pure and protective feelings, cannot be that same cocky, invincible badass you so recently described ravishing you up against a wall.

You hold her like that for a long time, and you're not sure if she's asleep, but she is at rest.

"Maura." A voice so small you barely hear it.

You stroke at her hair in reply.

She says it again. And she isn't saying it to address you. You don't know how you know this, but you know this. She's saying it just to say it, like how you touch velvet just to feel its texture. She's just feeling that you are there.

"Jane," you whisper back, and kiss her crown again.

"Maura." She nuzzles faintly into you. Maybe half asleep.

You'd hate to fall any more than half asleep yourself, and miss a moment of how this feels.

In your arms is just one little mortal human being, genetically over 99% identical to billions of others, and yet you care for this one more than all the rest.


	14. Craving contact (tw)

**Trigger stuff continuing. Sorry those disappointed in short chapters... this subject is not easy to write and I don't want to delay for a month while I write one huge chapter covering it all at once.**

* * *

She sleeps late.

You stay in bed late with her, looking at the curve of her shoulder and her waist and her hip. It must have been early morning when you separated. It was so lovely to have her close to you and you already miss it.

Maybe you served your purpose last night, and she doesn't want your close company throughout the day as well.

Late becomes very late. This is Jane's day off; maybe she intends to spend it in bed. Naturally an early riser, you're getting restless and you have to go to the bathroom. You quietly get up and go about your morning.

When she has still not come down after another hour, you cut up some fruit and top it with yogurt and bring it upstairs.

She is laying on her side at her edge of the bed, awake but still.

"Good morning," you say softly.

"Morning," she mumbles back.

"Breakfast," you offer, raising your tray, although it's more like lunchtime.

She makes an indistinct sound.

Weary eyes follow you as you come closer and set the tray on the nightstand. Concerned, you kneel by the side of the bed, at eye level with her.

Even after an almost-decent night's sleep, the woman before you is still physically and emotionally exhausted. She seems as drained as you would've expected the day after her panic attack, which leads you to wonder if she suffered more in your absence.

It's amazing how a few days of stress, exhaustion and probably poor nutrition have taken such an immediate toll on her appearance. Her thin frame and angular features readily show the loss of even a couple of pounds, and you hope that's all it amounts to.

For the umpteenth time this week, flashes of your earliest memories of her run through the back of your mind. You'd thought her absence had made you nostalgic about your friendship, but now a different reason finally dawns on you: the Jane you first met used to look like this. A little gaunt, guarded, haunted, tired down to her bones.

You reach up, making sure she sees your hand coming, and stroke softly at the hair at her temple. Her eyes close, and you smile a little to yourself. She likes that. You just keep doing it for a minute.

"Are you okay?" you whisper.

She takes a long sigh.

"Yeah."

Unsure of what to say, you lean up to kiss her temple.

"If you keep doing that I'm never gonna quit crying," she smiles weakly, but genuinely this time, eyes still closed.

You do it again, longer and more deliberately, and pull back just in time to see a small dark spot soaking into your pillowcase by the corner of her eye.

A third time would be too much.

"Please eat a little?"

After a long contemplative look at you, she hoists herself up to a sitting position against the pillows and takes the bowl when you hand it to her. Her hair is impossibly messy. You smile at it when she's busy eating. You love having her back in your house.

Glancing down at herself, she remembers she's wearing your cardigan. She feels the texture of its sleeve between her fingers.

"This is cashmere."

"Yes."

"That's expensive. Did you just let me sleep in like a thousand dollar sweater?"

"No." Eight hundred-something, if you recall correctly. You own less expensive knit sweaters that are comparably warm, but you were not looking to swaddle her in the cheapest thing you owned. "But if it kept you warm, I'd be happy if it cost ten thousand dollars."

She keeps examining it with wet eyes - you don't know whether to stay still wet or wet again.

"It _was_ warm," she says, and begins to move to take it off.

"Leave it on, then," you still her.

She leans back obediently.

"Can I sit with you?" you ask.

She looks up at you quickly like she's shocked you asked.

"You've been wanting time to yourself," you shrug. "I didn't want to take it for granted that..."

"Yes. Please."

You take the other bowl and go around to sit on your side of the bed, sitting up against the pillows next to her.

"Thanks for..." she covers some indecision with fruit. "I slept."

"I'm glad."

You both eat quietly.

That little rambunctiousness you'd usually expect is missing from her demeanor. Normally now she would be exaggerating the hilarity of kicking a tangled sheet from her foot, or complaining about your choices of fruit just to get a rise out of you. Instead she has the small voice and meek presence of someone recovering from illness.

It's not that you don't miss the regular Jane, but in a way it's so refreshing that she's letting you see her this way. Not being funny. Not keeping up banter. Not hiding from you that she's feeling emotional. She's just letting you see her exist and there's something beautiful about it, and about her.

She puts your empty bowls back on the table, and in doing so, sees the clock.

"Whoa, it's late. Sorry, did you have plans today?"

"No. Did you?"

She shakes her head.

"Will you just rest here today?"

"I'd like that."

She's not completely avoiding eye contact with you anymore, but there isn't nearly as much as usual. You don't mean to make her Talk About It, but if she feels embarrassed, you need to address it.

"Jane.. I have to say a couple of things to you. And you don't have to reply, because we aren't _talking.._ I just have to say them in case you need to hear them. One: I really am so sorry for my thoughtlessness and for unearthing something so painful for you. If you can forgive me, I hope you'll let me help you cope with it in any way I possibly can. And two: if you were afraid I might think differently of you, I don't. You're my best friend, and I love you. Okay?"

She shapes her mouth as if to reply, but is too close to tears to risk it. You're aware you're pressing on something extremely sensitive and really don't expect her to reply, and to show that, you lean in and press a long kiss to her temple. Like pressing your words into her brain to make sure they absorb.

Why does it feel so good to keep doing that? When exactly did head kisses get authorized here? When did they become second nature? You don't usually do that at all.

Do you keep kissing her on the head because you can't kiss her on the lips? No, that really isn't it. You would've kissed her on the head even given the choice.

She takes your hand and squeezes it and you just sit there for a while. You aren't sure if she's trying to work up a reply all this time, or if you're just sitting. It doesn't matter.

"Nothing to forgive," she says eventually. Her voice is still nowhere near normal, but this may be the best she can manage.

You open your mouth to insist on your guilt, but you don't want to make her waste her energy arguing that point. You'll just have to accept her answer gracefully.

"And don't worry, you can't unearth something that was never... earthed."

You don't know what you witnessed the other night then, if not for a repressed memory being triggered. She must be able to see the effort you're putting into not asking.

"I'm sorry you thought I was avoiding you 'cause I was mad. I wasn't. Just..." she closes, then rolls her eyes. "Fatally humiliated."

"Please," you sigh. "I know you can't help how you feel, but please, you needn't be."

"I never meant for anybody to ever know that. I never knew how I'd handle it... not well, clearly!" she tries hard to laugh.

"Wait," you pause. "Were you upset because you remembered it, or because I found out?"

"I- I've had my whole life balanced on the plan of taking that to my grave, okay," she replies, her voice growing faster and increasingly strained, "and I got more upset than I expected and I couldn't keep my mouth shut and then I knew you knew and I got so scared you might feel about me like I feel about me sometimes a-and I made a goddamn fool of myself and-"

"Jane," you pull her into your arms, your own eyes feeling wet. "Come here. You did not. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"I didn't really expect you to think... deep down... I just got so scared that you even had the chance. It's so fucked up." Her wavering words are warm against your neck as you rock her gently. "I couldn't look at you. I couldn't find out."

"Then you're going to look at me now. I don't know how you do that thing where you know what I'm thinking, but you're going to look me in the eye and know. You're going to see as much respect as you ever saw, if not more. You're going to see someone who loves you and thinks you're wonderful and would do anything for you. Someone you never have to feel embarrassed in front of."

You gently pull yourself away from her and hold her face in both hands. And you look right into her eyes, quietly, for a long time. Until she looks back at you long enough for one tear to roll from each of her eyes and down your thumbs. Until she stops looking like she doesn't deserve to be looked at like this.

"Do you see it?"

She smiles, faint but lovely, chin wanting to tremble, and nods. You brush her wet cheeks.

"Good." You smile, and let her slip back into your arms.

"Thank you."

You have no other plans for the day but to just stroke up and down her back for a while.

* * *

The whole day is spent quietly at home, with you staying near her and caring for her almost like she's sick. The only interruption is when her mother arrives with chicken noodle soup, having sensed that she literally _is_ sick. It's just as welcome regardless of the reason; you're glad to see Jane eat.

It's like the pendulum has swung far back in the opposite direction, and now instead of avoiding casually touching her as with the past couple of years, you're staying in some sort of physical contact nearly all the time.

It's not like she's suddenly just _allowing_ this contact; it's like she's craving it. She's so relieved that you know what she considers her ugliest secret, and still love her. You are in disbelief that this was really ever a concern. Making sure not to leave any room for doubt, you make sure to initiate or return as much of this loving contact as possible - not that it's a chore.

You sit with her, letting her nap or just relax with you while you read. You watch TV on the couch with her legs across your lap. You hug more times today than you've hugged total in your entire friendship. It feels so natural you wonder how you ever once came within five feet of her without just automatically putting your arms around her.

When you look at her, you can tell that struggle is still going on - the one where she hates for you to see her "weak" too much, but also feels good to be completely bare with you for once. You're glad the latter is winning, even if it's only because she's too tired to be any other way.

There is no point during the day when the lump sounds fully gone from her throat or she looks less than halfway to tears. She doesn't try to hide it from you, and in return, you don't try to fix it or even address it. You just accept that that's how today is, and don't make her speak so as to bring it to attention.

Although much of the day is spent silently, there's a feeling of emotional closeness between you that (as much as you detest its cause) is almost magical.

That night, as if you've both been looking forward to it, you climb into bed and immediately into the same position as last night. You happily accept her head against your chest, stroking at her temple. This time, more relaxed and assured of your love, she drifts quickly to sleep. You can't help but do the same.

* * *

Though work interferes, this magical day in your relationship bleeds into the next, and the next, until you are hopeful that this is not merely a special interlude, but a new phase in your relationship.

Jane gains back a little of her confidence and sarcasm every day. Nothing quite matches the extreme emotional vulnerability of that first day, but the increased physical contact and a certain tenderness remains between you. You spend your free evenings together, mostly quietly at your house or her apartment, and sleep together every night now without ever having discussed it.

You've caught yourself thinking of your career as that annoying interruption in between times you get to hold her close to you at night.

Anything pseudo-sexual about this closeness is on hold, if not overwith entirely; that isn't why you like it. There's just such a heartwarming innocence about the way she holds you and sleeps close against you, and it brings out a more intense affection in you than you've ever felt for anyone.

There's more to talk about (you think? hope?) but you won't rush her. When she feels safe and ready, she'll decide.


	15. What happened (TW)

**This is a less emotionally intense chapter but probably the one where I have to have Jane address rape & Hoyt stuff most directly. Avoiding graphic detail as always but still, trigger warning. **

**Also I really want to thank the people sending me notes privately or anonymously saying they identify with this. I've been reading fanfic for years and have never seen this aspect of assault mentioned, and already I've heard a handful of 'me too's. I'm sorry there are that many but if that's the case with you, even if you aren't reviewing or messaging me, I sincerely thank you for giving this story a chance.**

* * *

"I haven't slept with very many guys."

You look up from your dinner plate in mid-chew. Is this happening now?

A week closer to her usual self, Jane's voice is clear and if she's about to address matters directly, you can envision her doing so without crying.

You scrounge for a reply to that.

"I didn't get the impression you had." From what you've gleaned about her romantic past, she has had few, but committed relationships.

"Doesn't bother me," she chews.

"It shouldn't," you agree.

"I mean, yeah, not the number, but the time in between. People'll tease you about dry spells, but I don't care about that. I wanted to sleep with somebody when there was somebody I wanted to sleep with, otherwise I didn't really think about it much. I've never been the type to just.. y'know, schedule maintenance every five thousand miles."

You smile a little, supposing that would be her description of your approach. You aren't sensitive about your libido, and she knows it.

Only after a moment, you consider a little sadly how she'd phrased that information in the past tense.

"I understand." She's leading toward something. You just leave room.

"I'd already gone a few years.." she reaches for her glass of water, drains the last of it, and then chews on a piece of ice. That's bad for her teeth, but you stifle yourself. She's stalling.

Her refrigerator starts humming behind her.

"I haven't had sex in eight years." She tells you this quite directly, almost like she expects you to laugh in response.

You blink, not allowing your face to display your initial reaction, which is about how dire 8 years without sex would be for you. You need to react to this by her ruler, not yours. It's also relevant that the latter of those years have been sexless for many more reasons than the first.

"Does that bother you?"

"Not all that much," she shrugs. "I mean.. when I can ignore my anxieties and all that. Certainly is a record, though. But - I mean, who knows, it might've been this long since I met somebody anyway."

Is it too presumptuous of you to doubt that? You've seen her go out of her way to avoid contact with at least a few decent prospects. Agent Dean, for one.

Your mind fills with every fact and statistic you've ever read about the health benefits of sex. Not one of them seem appropriate to voice.

"There's no wrong interval," you assure her. "It's just a matter of personal preference and readiness."

"Wanna know a record that does bother me?" she asks almost before you're done speaking, and you suspect this is the part she really wanted to get to. Or get past. She completes her thought with an artificial, comedic(?) brightness. "I haven't come in five years."

You frown, then quickly remove it from your face even though she isn't looking.

Straight-faced, she is focusing intently on scooping her last few grains of rice onto her fork.

"You know.. what happened," she adds. "S'the last time it _ever_ happened."

You feel your face fall a little slack.

"Oh, Jane," you say with as much confusion as sympathy, and you would slip your arms around her if her kitchen bar weren't separating you. "I- I'm sorry."

Maybe that explains a few things, but it raises twice as many questions. You could've sworn...

"Wait, not even lately?" you finally ask, too confused. "I thought... ?"

"I know you thought," she replies, looking faintly amused. "I let you think."

She gets up from her stool, taking both of your plates to her sink, and you're left there to ponder for a moment.

At least a few of your recent discussions have been too intensely sexual for this to make sense. Has she not been getting aroused? Has she been getting aroused but can't orgasm? Is she not even interested? Could you have been drastically misreading this entire situation?

"Want anything?" she asks almost nonchalantly, grabbing a beer from her refrigerator. "I have that raspberry stuff you like."

"N-no thank you," you answer, watching her cross the kitchen. "May I ask if it's that... you've lost interest, or... ?"

"No. Just, uh, can't quite get there anymore," she replies simply, and passes you on her way to plop down on her couch.

One memory gnaws at you above the rest. You go to join her.

"What about that night when you hurried off to shower?" you blurt before you can think better of it. You hope it doesn't sound like you're skeptical.

"Oh, yeah." She rubs her face. "I actually did get pretty close that time... still couldn't, though. Took a long, cold shower. Plus I.. figured you needed a minute," she adds, smiling slightly.

You could tell she had been crying upon her return. You had attributed that to her getting emotional over an orgasm, not a lack thereof.

 _Oh no -_ and your misstep in triggering her had been even more inappropriate than you understood.

"Oh, no," you clap a hand to your chest, mortified at your behavior in this light. "I feel terrible, If I'd known that I never would-"

"I know, that's why I didn't tell you."

When you open your mouth, she raises a hand to stop you.

"Look, sex I'm not gonna die without. But to not even be able to... y'know, on my own... I'm not just gonna let him take that away from me forever. It's been a long time, and I want that back." She finds the remote and puts the TV on, you think just because she wants something in the background. "That's mostly why I agreed to do.. uh, some of the stuff we've been doing. I thought it could help me get there.. I thought you'd help me without having to know how much you were really helping me. You were treating me like I could do it.. and I liked that. It made me feel normal."

"I still would've treated you that way if I'd known," you promise. "I still will, if you ever want to keep trying."

"I.. it's nothing against you, but.. I need to think about it."

"Of course," you nod, not surprised. "We don't have to do any of that anymore. Unless you let me know otherwise I'll just assume that's the case."

She nods. Looks down at your hands. Links her finger around yours.

"Will you still be my warm milk, though?"

"Jane," you grin like a fool and kiss her head. "Of course."

With that, she ventures another of those looks over at you with sheepish affection.

And whatever combination of feelings you have for this woman, you cannot believe the strength of their sum. If she's seeing that on your face right now, you aren't embarrassed.

You have so many more questions about the orgasm situation, but you don't want it to sound like that's all you're interested in. Maybe that's not the main subject she wanted to bring up.

There's something else you want to say - something you can't believe you haven't already said long ago.

"I know you told me I was never allowed to say this to you... but I'm so sorry. I'm _so, so_ sorry that happened to you."

You're glad she looks you in the eye for that, and smiles a tight line with her lips.

"Thank you."

"You know, you.. you can tell me about it, if you ever want to," you remind her gently. "Even the worst parts. Not just now... I would always have cared."

"You never asked.."

It feels like being struck in the solar plexus. Should you have asked?

"I'm so sorry, I didn't think I was allowed... I thought you would've hated if anyone asked. I thought you might tell me on your own, when or if you wanted to."

"Eh, don't feel bad. I _would've_ hated it. You're the only one I might've talked to if you ever did ask.. but I wouldn't have told you half of it anyway, so."

You've heard the story from a legal, investigative, journalistic points of view. From cruel whispers in hallways, from tearful, vague references from her mother, from heavy volumes that Korsak won't say. From every source except the one that matters.

Already holding her hand, you rub gently at the scar you were never allowed to touch and ask a question you were never allowed to ask.

"What if I asked now?" you get up the nerve to try. "What happened to you, Jane?"

And after years of carefully avoiding the subject at all costs, that's all it takes to get her to tell you everything.

You always wondered how she would talk about it.

Her voice goes into a quiet, matter-of-fact mode. Not detached. Not like a police report. Just.. distant enough, you think, that emotion won't interrupt.

You come closer to crying than she does. You sit there holding her hand, honored and perspiring with revulsion. No questions or clarifications for now. Just listening.

It's really a fairly short story, but feels much longer; the actual details she volunteers are few but horrible. With each, you picture a piece of debris extracted from her with your forceps and dropped with a _clink_ into a basin. You picture getting all the debris out and flushing her wounds and wrapping her in clean white dressing and holding her until she heals.

You know none of your reassurances can really erase her pain but you whisper them all anyway.

"He knew." Her jaw grinds in stoic disgust when she answers a question you'd decided against asking. "I didn't let on. I'd be damned if I let him know, I didn't even blink. But he knew."

"Maybe he didn't," you try.

"No, he did. The whole time I figured he was gonna kill me right after, and at that point I was almost like.. fine. But he didn't and I think maybe that's why. Probably to keep me around for more. He said he'd.." her lip curls. "'keep our secret'."

You sigh in disgust.

"I was waiting for something to come up during the trial and.. nothing happened. And as much as I was terrified of anyone finding out about that... in a way, it's kind of worse. For him to think _we_ have a secret."

"I'm sure he thought that _was_ worse for you," you murmur. "Since his goal is simply to do whatever will disturb people as much as possible."

She nods.

If it'd gone public, Jane would've felt humiliated, and inevitably it would've been handled indelicately and she'd have been doubly traumatized by that. But the facts would've been on her side, and there would have been those who reached out with understanding, and with it out in the open, she could have eventually healed. To keep it a secret was to bind it in shame and let it fester in Jane's mind. To extend his crime from one physical offense to an ongoing psychic one.

He knew exactly what he was doing. You cringe at the evil in that man.

"Last time I went to question him. He asked me - in front of Frost - if I ever dream he's my _lover,_ " she frowns a little worriedly.

"Frost would never make that inference," you reassure her quickly. "There's no reason to think that refers to anything beyond what everyone already knows."

"Guess not." She takes a long drink.

"Am I the only other person who knows about this?"

"You, me, him, and the shrink who had to clear me for duty."

"Oh. I'm glad you discussed it." You had been trying to think of a way to suggest she speak to a therapist.

"Sure wasn't _my_ idea. I promised myself I'd never tell a soul, and that if anybody ever asked I'd lie. And then that was practically the first damn thing she asked, and I got so mad there was no trying to cover up what the answer was. So yeah, we spent a long time on this. I didn't see what the hell that had to do with me getting back to work, but I had to, so I did."

"Did it help?"

"At the time I would've said it was one percent helpful, ninety-nine percent bullshit." She tilts her head thoughtfully. "In hindsight, it was probably only like... sixty percent bullshit."

A generous figure, you suppose, coming from Jane. It's difficult to imagine her cooperating fully with a psychiatrist.

"Well, I'm glad you got _some_ percentage out of it."

"Mmh," she shrugs, tapping a fingernail on the bottom of her glass bottle. "Enough to help some days. Doesn't make that one part any less fucked up."

"Jane, it's... I'm sure 'disturbing' is an understatement. But it's a strictly physical, strictly automatic response. It's an extension of your fight or flight response kicking in from extreme stress and fear. You can't control it any differently than you can control your pupil dilation. It doesn't _mean_ anything.. it's no reflection on _you_ whatsoever. And it's more common than you think."

"Yeah, I know. I've read everything there is to read about it. Which isn't a lot.. nobody wants to talk about that. Surprise. You wouldn't even wanna say something that ugly anonymously."

"But it's something ugly that happened _to_ you. Not something ugly you _did_."

"I know. But you can _know_ how it really is... you can have all the facts you want and... some days it still doesn't help at all. Gives you no idea of how... disgusting it makes you feel inside even if you know better in your head, or.. how much of a freak it makes you feel like some-"

"You are _not_ disgusting," you interrupt her. " _Not_ a freak -"

"No, I didn't say that to make you say that. I know that. I get the science. I know I hated it. I know I couldn't help it. I _know_ I didn't do anything wrong. I'm just saying _knowing_ still doesn't always stop you from _feeling_..."

"Then trust what you _know_ as much as you can. And on the days when it doesn't help, or it hurts too much, you come tell me," you hold her hand between both of yours. "And I'll remind you what a brave and beautiful and strong person you are and how proud I am of you."

She looks from your hands to your eyes, and her bottom lip presses in an appreciative smile. Silently she just studies you for a minute, with eyes not quite as dry as they were for the rest of this conversation.

"Where'd you _come_ from?" she finally asks with an air of genuine puzzlement.

Not what you expected. You don't understand. She knows you're from Boston..? That can't be it.

"What?"

"Sometimes I wonder how I got a friend like you. What I ever offered you."

"You offer me your time. Your love and friendship," you reply. "I've never had a friend like you."

Even if you'd had many other close friends to rank her among, Jane would be in a league of her own. In fact, this is not merely about friendship. You aren't sure you've felt as much love - this secure, comfortable, affectionate kind of love - from anyone as you feel from Jane. Not a lover, not a friend, not a parent.

"I've never had an _anything_ like you," you add.

"You were so nice to me right away. When we weren't even friends yet."

"I thought you were an intriguing, inspiring person-"

"I was an asshole."

You both smile. That's been rather apt at times, you won't deny it.

The Jane you first met may not have been an outwardly sugary person, but it was what you sensed hidden inside her that drew you to her. No one would have put up walls that high without something worth guarding.

"A few thorns are no reason to pass up an especially beautiful rose."

She rolls her eyes faintly, but you think it's in that way where she's rolling them at her own reaction, not at what you said.

It is for one second or less - her hand at the far side of your head, balancing the small press of her lips against your cheek - before she wraps her arms around you, and releases some little noise, perhaps akin to a sigh, that you find indescribably lovely.

It's only after the fact that you realize that was the first time she's ever kissed you. Your grin is hidden in her hair.

How soft she is, only for you. You close your arms around her tightly, with no fear of her thorns.

* * *

 **This is the last chapter I intend to focus solely on trauma stuff. Obviously this isn't something that can be covered in one big conversation, 'cured' and then neatly moved on from, so I don't want anyone to think that's what I'm trying to depict here by omitting many more conversations, therapy, etc. That's just not the entire fic. So the implications will definitely not be forgotten, but I promise we'll be moving back toward some less unpleasant themes after this!**

 **Lastly, to guest asking why I thought a possible rape was implied in the pilot, a few details: 1. In the basement flashback, the first thing Korsak does is take off his jacket and cover Jane 2. The card attached to the flowers for Jane could be construed as a creepy rapist thing to say, beyond just generally creepy 3. When Jane goes to question Hoyt he says that her breasts are firm (we didn't see him touch her like that so possibly something happened we weren't shown) and asks if she dreams he's her lover (again what else did we possibly miss) 4. Frost reacts almost violently in Jane's defense at that last comment. In later episodes Jane says she couldn't be Korsak's partner after he saw her "broken" which sure could be explained by just the thing with her hands but her partners have seen her get shot, tied up and almost raped, & in other vulnerable situations, and she didn't request a switch every time, so I wondered was something more implied? (I know it wasn't really, that's just me reading too much into things)**


	16. Where we left off

**Ok more going on in this chapter! Minor references to hard stuff, but we're heading back toward sexier times. If some of you hate non-rizzles sex so much that I have to warn for it... warning. (Last time, and I'll make it up to you soon!)**

* * *

Weeks pass of comfortable routine. You talk about murders and movies and stupid things and important things. You steal each others' french fries and cajole her into shopping with you. You meet for drinks with the other detectives and have Rizzoli family dinners at your dining table.

In private, you're still enjoying that new physical closeness. What was initially a balm for Jane's open emotional wound has now become just a matter of mutual comfort and familiarity. It's like she's trying to catch up on the years of touch she's denied herself, and you're only too happy to indulge her.

Touching in any little way seems to calm and ground both of you. You put your head on her shoulder and share a blanket while you watch TV. You link your fingers together under the table at the Dirty Robber. She lets you warm and massage her hands on cold and rainy days when her scars hurt. You share a bed every night, and sleep pressed close together almost every one of those.

If you were concerned that sleeping with her body in full contact with yours would be a sexual temptation, it really isn't. It would take only a single word from her to switch those feelings back on, but they're off for now. Your feelings are deeply loving, protective, affectionate. There's even kind of a maternal hint, because your hormones don't know the difference.

The way she sleeps peacefully in your arms and seeks your warmth even in that sleep, makes you think of those kangaroo care volunteers and babies needing skin contact. (Oh, would she hate that analogy.) Following that train of thought, you keep the top couple of buttons undone on your pajamas in case she wants to lay her head on your chest. She never comments, but you think she likes the warmth of your skin. Honestly, you're amazed that your thoughts remain wholesome even when she snuggles practically into your cleavage. (It's that she does it unconsciously and innocently - you suspect because her nose gets cold - but still.)

Regular sleep is doing her a world of good. Her anxiety-weakened appetite is returning, and you and her mother have been taking turns feeding her (you have to play the 'bad cop' who focuses on nutrients because Angela has comfort calories well covered). You like to think that your love and ongoing emotional support are also factors in her improving health and mood.

As pleased as you are to watch her grow stronger and happier, you feel guilty when you catch yourself worrying that she soon won't need this closeness with you anymore. You don't want her to _need_ you like that. But you would love it if she _wanted_ you like that.

You aren't sure there's any particular landmark that signals her complete return to, or perhaps surpassing of, her former self.

Is it when she's putting in hour-long workouts at the gym?

Is it when the depth of her dimples catches your eye, making you realize those recently sharp, hollow cheeks now have a healthy, youthful looking plumpness?

Is it the day when she and Frost come to the morgue, both laughing too hysterically to explain the abrasions on both their elbows until long after you've finished cleaning them? ("We all hit the dirt 'cause Frankie yelled somebody was shooting but he farted on the way down and it wasn't a shot it was a car backfiring and now he won't talk to us" - you guess you had to be there)

Is it the day when she catches you looking at one of her badge-flashes and winks?

All of these have come and gone, and you are delighted to realize she isn't distancing herself from you.

* * *

On an uneventful Wednesday she tells you she's going to pick you up for dinner, and you cooperate, resigned to yet another meal at the Dirty Robber. For the sake of her comfort for the time being, you've accepted this as your default dining-out experience.

She arrives at your door wearing the black suit you got her to buy last time you went shopping together. It fits her quite well for being off the rack; whatever her best gray suit does for you, this one does even better. With the way she has it buttoned over a crisp white shirt, your brain keeps automatically adding a tie and pocket square.

She doesn't drive the way to the Dirty Robber. She says she thought you'd check out Venturi, and you actually do laugh.

French-Mediterranean cuisine _would_ be a nice fusion of your tastes, but frankly, the prices would be outside of her comfort zone for a weeknight dinner. Besides that, it's relatively new and quite popular; you'd need to have had reservations well in advance, and you can't promise her that badging herself in is going to work.

A little stunned, you sit down to a perfectly nice dinner under reservations in her name. If you'd expected this, you would've worn your new Rubin Singer.

When you ask the occasion, she says you've put up with burgers enough times in a row and she wanted to do something more your speed for a change.

It's late in the evening, when you're about to self-consciously apologize for talking all night, when you realize she's _kept_ you talking all night - about either yourself or things of interest to you. You suspect she feels your focus has been on her too much lately and is giving you a turn. You wonder if it's more about wanting you to feel cared for, or about wanting you to see her in control.

You recall considering the idea of fine dining with Jane practically as a joke. In your defense, you can cite your rather embarrassing dinner at the Fairfield estate as valid support for that. But maybe when she isn't being deliberately obtuse, the idea isn't so ridiculous.

The atmosphere of the restaurant is not quite candlelight-romantic, but it is dim, warm, and a bit on the intimate side. She looks perfectly gorgeous - handsome? both - over there in that suit with her charming dimpled grin and luscious curls, and..

Oh. Your sexual attraction switch has gotten flipped back on. You wonder if that's why you can't shake the feeling of being on a date.

Every pair of eyes that passes your table probably thinks you are. Let them. You'd be proud.

* * *

You're doing a little reading before bed when you feel her hand slip under yours.

Sometimes she gives you her hands to massage when she wants to talk to you. Not always - sometimes they just ache, and sometimes she just wants to hold hands. But that's the case often enough for you suspend your concentration on your reading, expecting her to say something.

"Hey Maur?"

"Yeah," you move your thumb softly over her scar.

"Can uh.. can we pick up where we left off? Not right now, but soon maybe?"

It amuses her how you don't even mark your page before closing your book.

"Of course, and I'm glad you brought it up in advance because there's a lot I've been wanting to ask you about that, if I can."

"Like?"

"Well, I want to know how it is with you. What I can do to help.. what I should avoid."

"Oh, well first of all, don't worry, there's no magic word that's gonna make me flip out again. That already happened, so you can pretty much say whatever. But yeah, the story's not really that complicated... I used to be able to get off and now I can't."

This is a topic she never would've discussed with you before; she's not just going to launch into an organized report of her masturbatory history now, either. Too broad a question about too private a subject. She's going to need more structure.

"Will you tell me how it used to be - what you think of as normal for you?"

This helps.

"Normally, I used to do it... I don't know.. some nights," she laughs a little. "Don't most people?"

"Many. How often?"

"More nights than not, I guess... as a de-stressing thing more than anything. I'd come home worn out and pissed off... have a beer, get off, go to sleep. That was my standard worknight. Pretty glamorous."

"A relaxation technique used by many," you smile. "So would you use anything - toys, erotica?"

You picture the scene of a younger Jane in her bed, lazily sliding some trusty little item in and out, a faint buzz filling her otherwise silent apartment.

"No," Jane snorts. "Call me old-fashioned but all I ever needed was my left hand and a decent imagination."

"Alright," you smile, willing to abandon (but maybe not erase) that mental picture. "So then what's been happening.. more recently?"

"Well. There's kinda been different phases I guess. For a while I didn't wanna touch myself, like even to bathe and stuff, so that wasn't on my mind at _all_. That part was... I don't know. A year? At least."

You nod.

"So I didn't think about it for so long I just completely forgot that getting randomly horny once in a while was even a thing. It was almost funny the first time I realized I was. So that started happening again, but I'd just ignore it. Eventually I gave it a try, but... it felt weird. It'd just go right away as soon as I started trying. So I'd stop."

"Okay. Is that where you are now?"

"Not really. Now I just don't."

"Because you think the desire will go away if you try?"

She shakes her head.

"Because it _doesn't_ always," she chews at the inside of her cheek. "I almost got there a few times. I'd get _almost_ there and lose my nerve. And I did that enough times to give myself a block about it, I guess, and now I just... don't, even if I feel like it."

"So nothing is wrong physically," you clarify, "you haven't felt ready?"

"I.. guess. Unless I also can't physically and I haven't found that out yet."

"Well, let's not expect that. What made you lose your nerve?"

She rolls her shoulders.

"I was afraid _he'd_ pop into my mind, right then. Right when there's no turning back. And it'd kinda be like..."

You sigh sadly.

"I hate that man," you murmur, sliding your fingers between hers.

"We have so much in common." She closes her fingers around yours. "Anyway yes, I realize if I ever want to get over it I'm just gonna have to risk it. But it's not just changing my mind and chickening out. I get all anxious and gross. I'm thinking about how I'd panic if it went bad, or that I'm gonna panic and _make_ it go bad, or.."

"Those are not very erotic thoughts," you point out.

"I do get stuck in my head," she admits. "That's why I hoped maybe with you I could uh, get enough of a running start."

"So.. now I'm a little confused about what your goal has been," you admit. "Did you get aroused when we've talked?"

"Yeah."

"But you haven't been touching yourself?"

"No."

"I.. would imagine that would have only made it more unbearable."

"It does. But I kind of like it." She releases a breath that is almost laughter. "I don't expect you to understand that."

"I'd like to." You reach for her other hand to give it a turn.

"I like getting turned on. It makes me feel like I still... work. And as much as it sucks not doing anything about it, I like to just _be_ that way for a while. That's enough for me these days, 'cause I guess it has to be. I know if I really tried to follow through it wouldn't work, so I guess it's just... I don't know, the _potential_ of it that feels good."

"So.. should we limit the intensity of our discussions? It sounds like you aren't sure you want to try to orgasm, and I don't want to frustrate you."

"No. I want you to."

"To frustrate you?"

She nods.

"I don't think I understand," you admit. "You want me to help you get aroused even though you don't necessarily have any intention of allowing yourself release? What's the logic there?"

"The _logic_ is," she shrugs hard, "it's me whacking this beehive with a stick because I don't know what else to do, frankly. Maybe I'm hoping I can get to a point where I won't be able to resist."

"You're hoping to become so aroused that your need for release will outweigh your reluctance to risk it?"

"Yeah."

You smile to yourself.

"Well. I'd certainly be happy to help with that." You like this challenge. How to arouse Jane as much as possible without laying a finger on her?

"You're all heart, lady," she smirks, settling tiredly against her pillow, her hand still in yours.

It's a figure of speech, but your heart _is_ in this. You don't just want to arouse her. You want to make sure she feels loved whatever the result is. Even if it went badly - _really_ badly - you wouldn't want her to run from you again.

"Jane?"

"Hm."

"No matter how it goes, or how many times, I'll be there for you. It's just up to you to _let_ me be, okay?"

She smiles warmly and closes her eyes.

"Thanks, Maur."

* * *

You don't simply pick up where you left off.

The first time, you quickly suspect she's not as ready as she hoped, and decide to try again another time.

The second and third times are more comfortable, but don't go far before she wants to stop.

It's not until the fourth time that you match the level you'd attained that bad night.

You talk until almost 3am. She never touches herself and you don't want to pressure her to, especially when you sense she's getting anxious about getting close. In the end she gives up, insisting she's wasted too much of the night already. You sigh when the bathroom door closes and the shower turns on, unable to imagine how frustrated she must be.

Even though she encouraged you to do so, you're almost reluctant to satisfy yourself in her absence. You feel a little despicable, pleasuring yourself in your warm, comfortable bed, knowing she's one room away, upset, discouraged and spraying cold water on herself (maybe you should point out the massage settings on your shower head to her? ... maybe not). You're too wet to be deterred by feeling like a bad person. If it's any consolation, you don't come that hard.

Minutes later she slips back into bed, and you promise her this was progress. She grumbles indistinctly and wraps her arms around you, coconut scented, shivering and cold to the touch. You warm and reassure her until she sleeps.

The next several times are all similar.

Sometimes she sounds so close for so long, you can't believe she could still resist.

You're thrilled when she insists _this_ is going to be the time, and finally does slip a hand beneath the covers. Within thirty seconds she's curled away from you, and you're rubbing her back while she cries quietly that it's never going to work.

In the morning, as you feared, she's a little different with you. You know she's frustrated. Maybe too frustrated.

"I gotta start spending some nights on my own again. I'm taking up too much of your time."

"You aren't _taking_ my time," you frown. "I like spending it with you."

"I do too, and if it was up to me, I'd just keep going how we're going. It's really nice. But it's not something we ever really agreed on, and that's not fair. I can't expect to spend _every_ day and night with you while I get my shit together. I mean, who knows how long that's gonna take. I'm eating up all the time you should be spending on.. on enjoying being single. Or becoming not single, or whatever."

Two compartments in your mind go to war.

You're undeniably sad to hear her say this. Going home with Jane and going to sleep with her every night has become a comfortable routine - not that you ever consciously decided to hope it was permanent. You hope she doesn't think you see this aspect of your relationship as an imposition. It's not always easy, but it does make you happy. You've never felt this emotionally close to anyone and you'd hate to see it wane.

But, she's right. This is not a romantic or sexual relationship, nor should you expect it to evolve into one, nor is it leaving you any time to pursue one. You haven't had a night to yourself in ages. When was the last time you had a real date, or sex? Since when does occasional hurried, guilty masturbation pass as your sex life?

It takes you this much selfish thought before landing on what's likely the main reason for her suggestion. This isn't leaving _Jane_ any time for privacy or to find a relationship, either. And isn't that the point of all this you've been doing - to get her prepared to handle intimacy when she finds someone? Maybe she's disappointed that you aren't getting her the results she hoped for, and she's getting uncomfortable and wants space...

Hiding disappointment, you agree on spending one night a week apart. You fear this frequency will increase.

Maybe this is healthy.

After spending the first such night alone and sad, you decide to make the best of the next one.

* * *

You should've known during the first five minutes with Alan that you weren't as excited about this as you'd planned on being.

It's not that you aren't into the sex physically. But mentally... emotionally..

Is it the way he's holding your wrists? Normally you enjoy that, but all you're thinking about how this is the exact position that would send Jane into absolute panic. About how you would never, ever do this with her, even in simulated fantasy.

Did this position feel this way before? So... vulnerable? He's no stranger, you're in good hands, but something is not working.

It can't be guilt you're feeling; not some kind of vicarious trauma. Just because Jane would dislike this doesn't mean _you_ can't enjoy it anymore. Jane isn't here and tonight has nothing to do with her. Tonight is about you having some actual sex.

But it's only Jane on your mind, and only Jane you wish you were having actual sex with. You can't be bothered about impropriety right now.

You'd never do this to her, but she could do this to you.

What if this was Jane? What if she was _your_ Jane, in _your_ bed. What if it was your Jane, strong above you. Your Jane, moving inside you. Making love with you, soft and sweet... or fucking you so good you're clawing at her back (and misusing words). You can't decide. Either. Both. You would be so gladly hers.

It's the oddest sensation. You do climax, and you do recognize objectively that it is pleasurable, but there is something.. incomplete.

And for a moment you actually sort of wish Alan were selfish enough not to notice that you just somehow forgot to react to your own orgasm, not to try to talk to you about whether you're okay.

He's a nice man, but this was a mistake. You apologize, saying you have a lot on your mind. That's certainly true.

Staying the night here was your plan, but the way you keep remembering the figure next to you isn't Jane bothers you more than an empty bed would. You have to go home. You need to figure out why you feel so guilty in peace.

You're an attractive single woman and you enjoy a responsibly active sex life. Jane has known that from the beginning.

Then why do you feel like this entire evening is a betrayal when you have no commitment to her? Why is she all you're thinking about?

Is it because you're out doing what she can't?

Is it just because you miss her?

* * *

 **Don't shoot! I didn't see Maura just losing interest in her sex life cold turkey. The good news is I promise you'll like the next chapter more ;)**


	17. Turn up the heat (x)

**Sexy chapter alert. :)**

* * *

In the springtime of your eighth year, you asked for a little space on your parents' property to try a vegetable garden. You weren't disallowed, but you were discouraged by your mother's reaction. Her little laugh. _If you like, dear, certainly - but why fuss with dirt and muck when perfectly fine produce is readily available?_

It wasn't the produce you wanted. You wanted to see germination and photosynthesis and pollination, the cycle of decomposition and rebirth, and not just in diagrams. You wanted to see what Gregor Mendel's peas looked like, and how their plants looked different from that of a tomato and a cauliflower. You wanted to see the steps in between bare earth and ripe fruit.

You shouldn't have let your mother's lack of enthusiasm deter you.

The nights you sleep next to Jane aren't the ones when you wonder. During those nights you're too occupied with quantifying your love for her. It's the nights you spend alone - the ones when you can't turn off your brain - the ones you spend _qualifying_ your love for her.

Of course you _love_ her - she's your best friend. You loved her before any of this, and she you. But this is no longer what you originally planned.

You just meant to help out a friend, to whom you happened to also be sexually attracted. You weren't supposed to think about her every waking moment. You weren't supposed to spend six nights a week falling asleep in her arms with your chest aching with affection, and the seventh missing her. You weren't supposed to want to make love to her, and apparently _only_ her.

When you daydream of Jane finally coming in your bed, it's not a matter of your ego, or a challenge to be conquered, or even lust. It's that you want her to feel love and pleasure and release, because she deserves to.

Maybe you've only ever looked for love like buying fruit at the market. Surveying an array of ripe produce, and choosing the most attractive ones, ready to eat.

You've never grown your own before. You didn't even plant this seed; something must've blown in on the wind. And maybe you saw something starting to grow, because you aren't _blind_ , but you didn't recognize what it was until it started to bear fruit.

The exact cultivar you cannot say, but you are in some kind of love with Jane.

* * *

"Turn up the heat," she'd said, after each of the last two unsuccessful times.

The closer she gets before giving up, the more it hurts both of you. So although you'll do this as many times as it takes, you don't want it to be too many.

You have your orders, and you don't care if it takes until sunrise.

Dropping her into a full boil isn't the way, though. A long simmer is what she needs, and you bring her there the usual way - on low heat.

So together you craft the imaginary reminiscence of a lovely, soft time together. How slow and sweet. How you'd just held her and kissed her. How she'd loved your mouth on her breasts. How her skin and your lips had felt. And, only when she suggests it, how you'd slipped a hand between her legs and stroked her.

As slow and repetitive as this buildup is, it takes no patience on your part. If you really could touch Jane, this is exactly what you _would_ want to do - things you once would've considered too slow, too mild even for foreplay.

It's not usually your place to suggest something new, but when she's already well-aroused, it's time to try.

You ask if it felt good when you touched her. You get her to say how much she liked to feel your hands on her, and how she trusted you to stroke her just right. So then you ask.

"What about my mouth, Jane? Would you like to have felt my mouth on you?"

"You... you didn't have to do that."

It's neither the positive nor the negative reply you'd anticipated.

"Of course I didn't _have_ to..."

"No, but.. I've.. well, I've honestly never come from that in real life, so... y'know. No need."

Maybe that's good. Maybe that's perfect. Focusing on some elusive orgasm just makes her nervous. You just want her to focus on feeling good, and maybe an act that won't have her expecting an orgasm is a perfect way of keeping the pressure low while you ease the arousal higher.

"You don't like it?"

"I _like_ it. I just don't come, which gets awkward."

Some women genuinely can't from that kind of stimulation. You wonder if that's the case, or if her previous partners were not skilled or patient enough. But that's beside the point right now.

"The point wasn't to make you come. The point was just for you to feel good for a while. I was happy to do it for you just because you liked how it felt."

"You were?"

"Of course." You aren't positive that you have permission yet. "Did you think it would feel good, Jane? When you felt me kiss your navel, did you want to feel my lips any lower than that?"

You hear her swallow in the space that you've left for her authority.

"Yeah."

You smile.

"So I moved lower. And I kissed..." you leave a beat, "inside your knee."

One thing you like about Jane's bedroom is how her window allows in a little street light if left open. While that's not ideal for sleeping, it's nice to able to see her reactions without actually having to put a light on in the room.

You smile as you notice her leg shift slightly under the covers.

"Are my pants on?"

"Oh." You've gotten ahead of yourself. " _Are_ they?"

"Not anymore," she smirks, and so do you.

"Okay. So I kissed your knee. I kissed at the insides of your legs, and your skin was so soft."

"Your lips were so soft and.. and I could feel your breath."

You love when her voice gets deep and gentle like this when she's aroused. Yours can't compare, but you do your best.

"I just kissed you a hundred times. I kissed right up -"

"Until you saw. You saw my underwear... how wet I was."

"I saw how you'd soaked right through. And I thought how badly you must have wanted to get those out of the way."

"But first. You kissed me anyway. Even with them on."

"Oh, yes," you go with it. "I saw that wet spot between your legs and I couldn't resist. And I kissed you right there, and even through the fabric I could feel you. How warm and wet you were."

"Your mouth," she breathes, and you can hear that she likes this in particular. "I could feel you."

You roll on your side to face her, propping your head on one hand, smiling to yourself and enjoying how arousal looks and sounds on her. The movement makes you much more aware of the similar situation with your own underwear.

"Didn't that feel good? To let me kiss your wet spot?"

"Mm-hmm.."

"Then could you imagine how good it would've felt with nothing between us?"

"I wanted to feel," she nods. "I took 'em off."

"I couldn't wait to taste you," you purr, and watch with satisfaction as her eyes close.

"I hoped you _wouldn't_ wait," she jokes a little weakly.

"Don't worry, I wouldn't keep you in suspense. I wet my lips... so they'd be very soft. And I kissed you again, just the same. Only this time... I could feel you. Just you. Bare and slick and beautiful."

"Oh..."

"And finally.. I tasted you." A small shiver runs through you at the thought.

"How was I," she breathes.

"Oh," you grin, trying to find a word good enough. "Delectable."

"You liked it?"

"I loved it. So I hoped you weren't going to mind, Jane, but I was going to want to take my time."

"You were?"

Normally she contributes more details than this, but you can tell her arousal is increasing now that she's mostly just hanging on your words. Maybe because you've never talked about this before, or maybe because she hasn't done a lot of this in reality.

"Oh, yes. Do you know how I did it?" you ask sweetly.

"How," she breathes.

How indeed. Not how to do it, but how to convey it to her? You're not good with slang, and she hates you using anatomical terms, and in fact sometimes gets squeamish if you go into much detail anyway. Your best bet is to keep this somewhat vague in terms of actual technique.

"I just settled in. I nestled myself between your legs, so that I could be comfortable there for a long time. Because I knew all I was going to want to do was just... put my mouth on you and... savor you."

"Savor me," she repeats eagerly. "How."

You lean a little closer to her ear, licking your lips and making sure that your voice is like velvet.

"I kissed you between your legs just like I would kiss your lips. Nice deep.. soft deep. Where you forget everything."

Wide eyes fixed on the ceiling say this is going well. You notice her hips shift under the covers, but her hands are still firmly at her sides.

"You could just relax. And close your eyes," you continue, and she does, "And just... let me enjoy you. Oh, you could tell I was enjoying it as much as you were. The feel of you... the sight of you. The taste of you on my tongue."

A small sound escapes her, and she bites her lips together.

"We had all day... all the time in the world. Expecting nothing.. just for me to please you for as long as you liked to be pleased."

"I was so wet." It's wrenched like a confession from her parched-sounding throat.

"And I loved the taste of you."

"Your mouth felt so hot."

"My mouth was on you. My tongue licking at you, so warm and so good. It felt just right."

"So good," Jane keeps echoing in a whisper as you keep telling her how you'd pleased her.

You can hear her breathing change next to you. She is crying.

She will not touch herself and she's so aroused she is crying. You've never been aroused and sad at the same time and it's an odd combination.

"It felt so good," she repeats.

You don't want her to stay like this for long. Time to ease the heat up further.

"Could you feel my tongue, Jane? Strong and warm.. savoring you. Massaging you. Dipping softly just... just barely inside you." You moan softly and don't worry about whether you had meant to.

She curses quietly. Crying and not trying to hide it.

"I felt it. I trusted you."

"I knew you trusted me to do this for you. And that was so special to me."

"I wouldn't let anyone but you," she whispers, and you see a tear spill down the side of her face. You kiss it away before it can reach her ear.

Your heart swells and you wish so dearly that this was not just a fantasy.

"I wanted to show you I'd take such good care of you. And love you so softly."

"Just you."

"Just me."

You hear a deep breath.

You wonder how many times in your life you've been wetter than you are right now. Probably not many.

"There was no hurry," you continue, your voice low, lulling her. "I would've done it for hours. I just loved tasting you. I just loved making you feel good."

"Oh God. It felt so good." Her voice is deep and ragged and thick with tears.

"I hoped you felt loved and safe."

"I did. I did but.." Her breathing is shallow, clenching the sheets in her fists.

"But you knew I'd be there for you no matter what," you add quickly in case she's about to introduce something unpleasant. "You knew you were safe with me. That I loved you and I'd understand."

"That's what felt so good. I didn't ever want you to stop."

"I wouldn't stop."

"I couldn't believe I was letting... how good... how warm..."

Those hands aren't going anywhere. Turning the heat up another notch will take another risk.

You know she doesn't want this, and you don't mean to sound like you're suggesting it. But if it's a turn-on for her to know you're attracted to her, this should help.

"If I tell you something, will you promise to understand I'm in no way asking you for it?"

"Tell me."

"You know how sometimes a fantasy is something that excites you, but you wouldn't really want to do it? Like this is for you? Well.. that's not how this is for me. I would do this for you in a heartbeat, Jane."

The way she almost moans "you would?" sounds like your risk has paid off.

"Every word," you promise. "Not because you're gorgeous and I'm attracted to you... because I want you to feel so good."

"You're saying that to turn me on," she breathes, half smiling. Like she's trying to be amused and skeptical so she isn't overwhelmed.

You want her to be overwhelmed.

"Yes, but also because it's true. I would do it, Jane. For as long as you wanted," you grin as you see her start to realize that you mean it. "As often as you wanted. And I would consider it an honor."

She rolls her head to breathe something unintelligible into her pillow.

"Is that okay, Jane?" you ask sweetly. "Is it okay that I think about pleasing you?"

"You would do that.."

"I'd do that. Whenever you wanted. It'd be so warm and wet and sweet and lovely..."

"So warm.."

"Would it make you happy on a stressful day at work, to know I'd do that for you as soon as we got home, if you asked?" you suggest, earning a shaky breath from her. And one from yourself when you picture her eagerly unbuckling her pants for you. "Or maybe in the middle of the night, if you couldn't sleep..."

 **"** You wouldn't care that... that I didn't... you'd just do it for a while anyway.."

"Just to make you feel good, and I'd love every minute. I'd keep going as long as you let me."

You can feel her hips shifting subtly, but almost continuously, under the covers.

"You wouldn't care if I cried. You'd be so good to me that I'd cry but you wouldn't care."

"Of course not."

Her eyes squeeze shut and fresh tears spill from both.

"I'd want to come for you. I want to come so bad," she sobs quietly.

Your own eyes are a little wet. Inside you arousal and sorrow are not warring, but somehow complementing each other.

It's the sexiest person you know, writhing with arousal on your bed. It's your best friend, anxious and frustrated.

She arches her upper body, repositioning herself with a loud groan that's a little more like misery than arousal. This is past the point where she usually gives up, and you're proud of her for staying.

You'd hate for her to get this close and still go unsatisfied, but you don't know how else to give her a push without overstepping your bounds. You were confident that she would've at least tried to touch herself by now.

If only you could reach over and do it for her. You'd do it so lovingly, so patiently. Without a doubt you could make her come - not just because you're good, but because you doubt it would take more than a single well-placed graze at this point.

But talking about it and doing it are entirely different things; that isn't on the table, and it isn't your place to try to put it there.

"What can I do?"

"My ear," she whispers after a moment. Her eyes dart to you for just a fraction of a second.

You blink and grin. And you lean close enough that your lips are almost touching her ear, and whisper so quietly that she could not hear you otherwise.

"I'd lick you _so_ softly, Jane."

And you wet your lips, and softly suck at her earlobe. She whimpers and claps a hand over her mouth. You let out a low, approving sound.

"I'd take such good care of you," you kiss beneath her ear. "You could look down and watch me there, between your legs... with my eyes closed... and my tongue just bathing you. And slipping inside you. Maybe you could even hear it."

Your demonstrate on her ear and she moans, loud and shocked and desperate. You stop only because it makes you smile.

"You'd be so wet, but you wouldn't be the only one," you let your warm breath flow over her wet earlobe. "Nothing would've ever made me as wet as the taste of you. I'm so wet right now, Jane, just thinking about it."

Come on. Come on, beautiful. She's so close. Something has to happen. But it hasn't, and the shock value of the ear thing is going to wear off.

"Can you feel it, Jane? Can you imagine my tongue... my lips, sucking you gently?"

She mutters something in agreement, but with her hand still over her mouth you can't tell what.

"All you could think about would be how good it feels. Only my mouth on you... wet and warm and soft. And how I wouldn't stop. If you liked it all day.. I'd do it all day."

"I wanna come."

"Then you will," you murmur right into her ear. "You would. I wouldn't care how long it took, I'd be right there to hold you. It'd be so wonderful. I'd feel you coming. I'd taste you coming," you lick her ear again and she whimpers. "My mouth would never leave you. You'd come and it'd be so beautiful and it feel so good."

You're so aroused that the air current in the room might set you off - and your last orgasm was less than 24 hours ago. How could she possibly be feeling?

"Maura," she asks a little unevenly.

"Yes?"

"You're close too, right?"

"Yes," you answer more emphatically than you mean to.

"You gonna get off if I go away?"

"Yes," you admit, disappointed that she's thinking of giving up.

"Would... would you do it even if I didn't go away?" she asks thickly. "If I can't.. would you let me hear yours?"

That disappointment dissolves. You would not have wanted to make her uncomfortable by suggesting that, but oh, is that a great suggestion. Maybe she'll even do it at the same time if you ask.

" _Yes_ ," you breathe.

Your eyes roll back as soon as your fingers slip under your waistband. Oh, your thong. It's so far gone.

"I'm touchi- _oh_ , I'm so wet."

It takes you a moment to gain even enough friction to gasp at your own touch.

You know she asked you if it feels good, but you're having trouble replying in words.

You stroke yourself firmly, and your hips strain and the moans spill from your throat like you have absolutely no choice. Though your eyes have closed, you know she's watching your face, aroused and mesmerized.

Draw this out. Put on the sexiest show she's ever - oops, too late, you're coming.

Her name spills from your mouth with each wave of pleasure, and each time, knowing she's hearing it, it only drives your pleasure higher. It's not that you're trying to arouse her. It's that you honestly can't stop yourself.

You're barely at the end when you hear an uncertain noise next to you, then a loud, desperate gasp.

A question mark forms at the end of your last moan of her name. Is this it?

Her knees tent under the covers, and a sweaty hand darts toward yours. You squeeze it back, rising on one elbow close to her again, ready to attend to her. Your climax forgotten. This is more important.

Her small, sharp breaths and her expression both seem much more like surprise than pleasure. You feel her hand tensing in yours, and her body jerking against nothing.

"Oh, Jane," you hear yourself sigh, and you hurry to help while you still can. "That's it, darling."

Your lips at her ear earn one very broken, unsteady moan. Which might be your favorite sound you've ever heard.

She's left wide-eyed and open-mouthed, looking at the ceiling so shocked that you begin to question whether it's in a good way.

"Jane?" you kiss the trembling hand that's still gripping yours.

"I.." she blinks, looking at you, winded and stunned.

"You did it?"

"I did it," she pants, swallowing with a parched throat. "How did..?" Her mouth breaks into a disbelieving smile for just a second, and you're relived.

"You did it," you repeat, beaming with relief. "See?"

"I... how the hell.. I didn't even touch..?"

Apparently the way she was moving her hips was enough.

"And it was okay?"

"It was okay."

You grin so hard.

"I did it. Or.. _you_ did it." She drops her head back on her pillow and you watch her stunned stiffness melt into relief, which bubbles out in laughter. You laugh with her. And for a minute you're just laughing hard together and wriggling your joined hands back in forth with excitement.

And when her laughter blends seamlessly into crying, you're not at all surprised.

"Come here, Jane," you murmur, pulling her into your embrace and kissing her head. Settling in to just hold her for the rest of the night, just like you promised, just like you wanted to. "It's okay."

Her arms squeeze around you and you can feel her trembling and practically feel everything whizzing through her bloodstream. You have no idea how strong a physical and psychological release this long awaited must feel, but you aren't surprised that she can't fall right to sleep. She flits between emotions almost as if she's intoxicated.

One moment she's humming contentedly, nuzzling at your neck. Then crying quietly again. Then she'll just relax for a while, and you'll think she's fallen asleep until she begins to laugh to herself - not a happy giggle, but a low, nearly villainous chuckle like she's realizing what she's capable of - which makes you laugh too and give her a tighter squeeze.

There aren't many hours left before dawn, and if she needs to be held for all of them, you're happy to do it. This is just what she wanted since day one - not only an orgasm, but to enjoy the after. To just rest with you and luxuriate in the moment.

You hold her head at your chest and stroke through her curls, and tell her it's okay and how beautiful, how good, how strong, how lovely. And you keep kissing her hair because you love her and you're so happy for her.

And when you feel her lips press to your skin once before she falls asleep, you know that she did not just kiss your breast. That is, not erotically.

She kissed your heartbeat.

She must have felt it leap.


	18. The farm (x)

**To those concerned whether this will get as rizzly as they want: it will! But there's a lot that has to happen first, and you're stuck with this pace I'm afraid.** **Hence 'slow burn' :)**

 **Happy new year!**

* * *

Twice you'd said her name. Twice she'd just kept staring across her living room obliviously while her cereal grew soggy.

So you'd given up and just stared at her face like the Mona Lisa, trying to decide whether you were seeing the tiniest of smiles. When her eyes eventually did wander to yours, she seemed surprised to find the eye contact and looked elsewhere again. With what emotion, you couldn't decipher.

This morning hadn't felt like 'the next day' so much as a nap later. You hated that work had to interrupt her enjoyment of this long-awaited moment, so you at least woke her gently from the same embrace, sparing her the harshness of the alarm. Feeling closer to her than ever, and expecting her to wake up happy, hazy, and probably a little vulnerable, you'd been anticipating a morning as close to lovey-dovey as you can get away with.

Right away you knew her mind was in a different place. Though not distancing herself or looking regretful, she spent the morning lost in thought and hardly knowing what to say to you. You gave her space. Hopefully she was a good sort of distracted, but her near-silence left you room for worry.

Is she embarrassed that you saw her come or cry or both? Reviewed in the light of day, were the things you whispered to her too much? Does she regret the things she whispered back?

Now that she's finally achieved her goal, does she not know her next step any better than you do? Is she done with all this now?

Is this the start of an awkward phase?

How unfortunate that this momentous occasion fell on a Monday night, meaning you'd wake up into a Tuesday - the weeknight you've arbitrarily decided to be the one you spend apart. Or did she do that on purpose?

You're well into your workday, running through the monthly supply inventory when a text beeps in your pocket. You know it's from her before you even look. No, you don't. That's confirmation bias. You were just hoping.

 _{ Any plans tonight?_

Lately you try to schedule social obligations for Tuesday nights, but this week you have none. Otherwise, your plans normally consist of catching up on work from home, and avoiding texting Jane in order to respect her privacy.

Once again you remember how you've been meaning to look for some kind of art class. If nothing else, that would give you something to say to your mother.

You reply honestly.

 _No, you?_ }

The Jane-is-typing ellipsis seems to wriggle forever on your screen, and you watch it expectantly like waiting for an egg to hatch.

 _{ I know it's Tuesday, but mind if we spend it together?_

Your face cracks into a relieved grin.

Her ellipsis appears and disappears a few times, and you grin to yourself at the technological equivalent of her trying to get words out. Not wanting to be cruel, you quickly respond,

 _Of course! }_

No hesitation precedes this reply, but it's obviously not the one she was composing, and you miss whatever that was going to be.

 _{ Cool_

 _{ I'm going to be stuck here through lunch and a little late too. Your place, I'll bring Chinese?_

 _Sure. Any time is fine. }_

In a few minutes, a clarification arrives:

 _{ fyi I don't mean for an encore or anything_

You watch the ellipsis for quite a long time, refusing to risk spooking this one away.

 _{ I just wanted to be with you some more_

Your eyes scan the same line over and over. Composing yourself, lest the lab techs in the next room wonder why you are so giddily counting the antimicrobial soaps, you reply:

 _Same here, Jane. I'll look forward to seeing you. }_

* * *

After eating a quick and light lunch alone in your office, you're taking advantage of the midday lull to catch up on returning some messages.

You get another text.

 _{ Are you busy?_

 _Just answering some emails. What's up? }_

 _{ Can I see you for a minute?_

You frown. Not at the request - but at the fact she had to ask.

 _Of course... are you at your desk? }_

 _{ Go downstairs when you can_

You frown again. Downstairs? _You're_ downstairs. She works upstairs.

 _Where? }_

 _{ Just take the stairs all the way down_

 _Ok... }_

You hastily finish your email, sending it off with a round less of proofreading than you normally would've settled for.

Exiting your office, you push into the stairwell and peer down while the heavy door shuts behind you. The elevator should serve just as well, but she said stairs, so down the stairs you go.

Just as you arrive uncertainly at the bottom steps of the cold, empty basement stairwell, shoes in hand, your phone beeps again.

 _{ Turn left_

Around the corner from the bottom of the stairs is a corridor with two doorways. Through the one of them that's propped open, you see a pant leg and black boot that you recognize.

You follow a "Hey" further into the doorway.

It's a small room of painted block and cement floor, with shelves of janitorial supplies and some electrical boxes on the walls. Machinery hums somewhere nearby, maybe having to do with the elevator.

Jane's sitting on a large cardboard box, leaning against the corner created by the wall and a taller stack of boxes at her side, one boot propped on a yellow Caution: Wet Floor sign. Some playing cards are scattered next to her.

When you speak, your voice is a little hushed, as if in respect to what you already know this place is - 'the farm'.

"Hi. What are you doing?"

"Playing solitaire," she answers quietly without looking up. "Cheated twice and I'm still not winning."

Actual question obvious and unanswered, you just remain silent.

"This is where I used to come when I couldn't be around people."

"Used to?"

"When Frost was new he thought I didn't like him 'cause I never wanted to have lunch with him..." She picks up cards and lightly slaps them back down. "My hands were still healing. Reporters were still looking for me. I couldn't sleep. I'd give an excuse and come here to just.. breathe. Cry. Whatever." She flexes her fingers the way she does when they're cold and aching.

Your heart aches to picture her in this cold, depressing little room when maybe Detective Rizzoli was too scary a person to be, and she just needed to be Jane. Just a frightened, exhausted and lonely woman curled up next to a floor buffer, crying quietly, trying to soothe one injured hand with an equally injured hand.

Sucking in a sorrowful breath, you move closer, sit on the box next to her and lay one upturned hand on your leg.

She looks at it.

"I'm sorry I lied to you."

"You did?"

"About having to work through lunch. I don't know how I feel today. I should be on top of the world..." her slightly wet eyes examine the far wall aimlessly until she shrugs. "I wanted to be with you but I didn't want to keep being weird to you."

You understand enough that it doesn't sting. You're just glad she let you in.

"That's okay."

"I actually came here to hide, after how good you've been to me. But now when I come here I just wish you were here. I don't know what I'm hiding from, but it shouldn't be you. _You're_... you're my hiding place."

You smile softly at her profile.

"You don't have to know how to feel in front of me," you assure her. "You can just.. be."

You wriggle your fingers, requesting hers again.

She places one cold curled hand gingerly into yours, and you begin to massage at her palm with your thumb. Her eyes close.

So many questions are running through your mind. But if this has always been a place of quiet for her, you sense that she hasn't brought you here to talk.

You put your arm around her. She leans her head against your shoulder, and you lean your cheek against her head.

"I wish I could've been here for you back then," you murmur, quietly enough to suggest it's all you intend to say.

"Me too," she sighs. "Thanks for being here now."

And until the alarm on her phone goes off, you sit together on Jane's farm, holding her in one arm and rubbing her hands with the other.

* * *

Showered and tired, you're glad to climb into bed and relax at last - to your relief, directly into each others' arms. To your slight surprise, she pulls your head against her chest, which you would've expected to do for her tonight instead.

"I'm really glad you wanted to spend tonight together."

"Same here," she replies. "All I wanted to do was just keep laying here with you and not let my brain start back up yet."

"I was so disappointed when I realized it was Tuesday. I would've asked if you hadn't."

She hums a note that sounds like a compromise between a chuckle and an 'aw'.

"What've you been doing on Tuesday nights?" you ask curiously, coiling a curl of her hair around your finger.

"Not much."

You get up the nerve to fish around.

"Meet anyone?" you ask, feeling like a bad friend for happily expecting the answer to be no.

"Like... people?"

"I thought you suggested spending nights apart so that you could potentially meet someone."

"I don't _feel_ like meeting someone, I said we should have nights apart so _you_ could live your life. Who am I meeting, drinking on my couch?"

"Oh," you blink, feeling ashamed to feel relieved to think she's just spending these nights home. "I thought maybe you wanted some privacy and were trying to be kind in framing it that way."

"When have I ever been accused of kindness. And why, have _you_ met somebody?"

"No," you answer. "Honestly? Whether I go anywhere or not.. mostly all I do on Tuesday nights is miss you."

"Really?"

You love the hope that (you think?) you detected in that single word. You nod.

"I miss _you._ I sleep on my couch because bed feels cold and weird without you."

"Same here! Not the couch part, but the bed part. I hate Tuesdays."

" _I_ hate Tuesdays. I just wanna be here, fighting with you about who's doing the dishes and what to watch.. knowing I'm gon-"

You wait patiently in the silence, but don't want to let it go.

"Knowing you're what?"

"That I'm gonna get to fall asleep with you," she finally finishes. It's sweet, although you wonder if that's what she was originally going to say.

"Let's forget Tuesdays."

"Deal," she squeezes you. And you just enjoy each others' warmth for a little while.

"Would you be hurt or relieved if we fell asleep without my asking how you're feeling?"

One of those little nasal exhales that's like the lowest level of laughter.

"Both," she guesses. "I feel.. a little bit of everything. I don't feel _bad_. I just feel so weird that I don't feel more happy. Maybe I've had too long to build up expectations."

One orgasm can't be expected to undo years of sexual dysfunction, but you don't have to tell her that.

"I shouldn't have let that get in the way, though," she adds before you've thought of how to reply. "I should've thanked you last night. Way before last night."

"You don't have to thank me."

You love the faint sensation at your scalp that means her fingers are playing with a strand of your hair.

"I really do. I don't think they make a Hallmark card for what you did for me," she tries to laugh, but isn't in the mood. "I mean, not just for.. because it worked. I mean for every other time it didn't, and how long you took with me every time. I don't know if I ever would've been able to do that on my own. It really... thank you, Maura," she murmurs into your hair. You feel a light pressure that might have been a kiss.

"I'm honored to be the one you chose to share it with," you respond.

"Well, you... _shared_ something with me too, so ditto."

"Oh.. yes," you reply a little awkwardly. In all your focus on Jane, you half forgot that you also came in front of her. But that's not the orgasm that interests you. " _So_ , how did it feel?"

"You know what? I kinda don't even know. All I could think was 'holy crap, is this happening?' and I missed the whole thing."

Not a glowing report, but you appreciate her candor.

Her surprise had been both a pro and a con. You suspect she might not have been able to climax if she truly expected or tried to, but that shock clearly did eclipse her enjoyment when she did. Maybe now that the element of surprise is no longer needed, she'll be able to focus more on enjoying her subsequent ones.

"That's understandable, given the circumstances. I'm sure your next one will be better."

You're horrified at your presumptuousness until you realize that your wording happened to be ambiguous. She can't tell whether you meant her next orgasm would be with your help, or not. That'd have been clever if it was intentional.

A pregnant pause ensues.

"Want to hear something dumb?"

You smile already.

"I have a feeling it won't be dumb..."

"I know you just did all that to show me I could do it, and I should be a big girl now, but I'm still scared to try it alone."

"You don't have to," you promise, happy that this is not an end. "I'll be there as many times as you need me to be until you feel ready."

If you hadn't both meant that so genuinely, you'd roll your eyes at your selflessness.

You feel more than hear an exhale that could have been one of relief.

"Thanks."

Her fingers at the back of your head scrunch your hair a few times affectionately. It makes your heart speed up.

You almost kiss her neck in reply before you remember that you shouldn't.

Sleep arrives before any more words do.

* * *

A hissing exhale comes from next to you, like a steam valve being released. It's disappointment, not excitement.

Jane's mental block is fractured and crumbling, but not removed. Her breakthrough has given her the courage to really try, but she finds that her own touch still doesn't guarantee success.

"It's like the more I try the more I chase it away."

You sense it's time to give up on your narration.

"Are you finding the actual sensation unpleasant, or are you still uncomfortable with the idea of being touched?"

"I don't know," she grumbles, switching the lamp on and rubbing her face. "Idea, I guess."

You suppose she's going to head off to the shower in defeat now. Oh!

"Have you tried it in the shower?"

"If I can't do it laying down in a comfortable bed, I don't think standing up on a slippery surface is gonna help my chances."

"But have you tried mine?"

"Your...? Shower?"

"My shower head. It's detachable," you point needlessly toward your bathroom, adding when her blank expression persists, "It's a handheld, _massaging_ shower head...?"

" _Ohh._ Didn't think of that."

"You've never tried one of those before?"

"No, I've never had that kind at home, so.." she shrugs.

"Well, many women find it an effective technique anyway, but in your case I think it might be the perfect thing to try, if what you're doing now seems too... direct? There are a few settings to choose from, you can see if you like any."

"Many women, huh?" Jane smirks. "Present company included?"

"Of course," you match it. "It was a well-researched purchase."

"Well," she chuckles, running her fingers back through her hair. "Um. I guess it's worth a try, as long as I was gonna shower anyway if I was stuck."

Instead of getting up she just looks at you, and you look at her, until you realize you're both thinking about how you promised to be with her.

"So.. shall I accompany you?"

Her eyes widen a little.

"In the bathroom," you add quickly, figuring on sitting in the dressing chair near the door. "Not the shower."

"Oh," she relaxes halfway. "Would that be weird? I just.. feel safer about this when you're there."

"Not at all. Oh! In fact, I have an idea." Why do separate baths and showers exist, if not to be used simultaneously? "What if you go see if you like it first, and if it has potential, I could come take a bath while you.. shower?"

She considers that for a moment and smiles.

"Good idea."

She disappears into the bathroom, and you hear the water turn on. After only moments, it shuts off again.

That was fast.

"Hey, how uh... do you do this?" she calls out.

You approach the bathroom door and open it just an inch so that you can hear each other.

"Well," you frown a little, not sure what the confusion would be about. "The most common approach would probably be to try applying the stream of water to your cli-"

"Wh- THE _THING_ , Maura. How do you change the settings?"

"Oh. There's a dial around the shower head that you twist."

"Oh." The water turns back on, and you hear it cycling through different volumes and frequencies. Feeling a little creepy to stand there and listen, you go sit back down on your bed.

"Maura?" The water stops again a couple of minutes later.

"Yes?" you call out.

"There's uh... potential."

"Good!" You grin. "Shall I?"

"Yeah."

You step in.

And you've never been so grateful for the unfrosted section at the top of your shower glass, through which you can see her clearly down to the tops of her shoulders. Even knowing the rest of her is a blur to you, she still smiles a little bashfully, clearly feeling exposed, so you take care not to stare at the frosted parts of her.

Her hair is down and dry, with no pretense of this being an actual shower.

You draw a bath and turn down the lights halfway, relaxing the room.

Without being asked, she turns fully around when you begin to unbutton your pajamas. You would've been flattered if she had watched.

Understanding that she has no desire to see your body, you add plenty of bubbles along with chamomile essential oil.

"Okay," you announce once you've secured your hair in a bun, and lowered yourself safely into the water.

Jane turns back around, cautiously examining your face, then your discarded clothes, the bubbles, and then you again. You smile at her reassuringly.

'Showering' never takes you very long, but the thought dawns on you that you've imposed somewhat of a time limit on her by doing this. If she has more difficulty, she'll be embarrassed to obligate you to sit in a cooling bath while she tries and tries.

"I hope you won't rush, by the way," you tell her, closing your eyes and resting your head back against a folded towel. "I like a good soak."

The shower turns back on, and you hear the sound of the water change a couple of times as she cycles between contenders for her preferred setting. She settles on one that you like for two reasons: one, it uses the least water, and two, it's quietest and therefore gives you the best chance of hearing her enjoy it.

For what you'd gauge to be a few minutes, all you hear is the same sound of the water.

Opening your eyes curiously, you find hers closing immediately, a slight smile gracing her lips.

Even from your low angle, you can still see her clearly from the neck up, and she was able to see you when her eyes were open. She'd been looking at you.

You can see the vague shape of her through your frosted shower glass, all beige save for the silver glint of the shower head she's clutching down low. She's leaning against the wall, head tilted back against the tile. When she bites her lips softly together, you know she's enjoying herself.

You intend to enjoy yourself as well.

The human body never ceases to amaze you - how you can feel wet, even underwater.

Her eyes open again. You watch them find your left hand partly above the bubbles - the one that's pinching gently at your nipple - and search in vain for your right hand.

When your eyes meet, neither of you breaks the gaze. Just watching. You knowing what she's doing behind the frosted glass, and she knowing what you're doing beneath the bubbles.

Neither of you is exaggerating for the other - in fact, you suspect she's doing the opposite, trying to maintain a neutral expression. Little flickers of pleasure seem to escape across her face, where her eyes want to close and her mouth wants to open. You notice that the more pleasure you allow to show on your face, the more of those flickers you see cross her face. In time, she loses the battle entirely and closes her eyes.

You can't take your eyes off her, enjoying that she's enjoying herself for the first time in years. She deserves it. She deserves all the pleasure in the world. She's so beautiful. If she could hear you a little more easily over the sound of the water, you'd tell her so.

Is something about this making you want to laugh?

All your sexual experience, and the mostly blurred, virtually static image of your best friend subtly enjoying a little pulse of water between her legs is the most erotic thing you can recall ever seeing. Head tilted back against the tile, mouth a little open, features contorted ever so slightly in pleasure.

This isn't going to take long after all.

The next time she opens her eyes, she rolls her head just slightly on the tile, enough to look over at you directly, and nods.

You have not prearranged this, but you know what it means. You nod back.

Fingers formerly moving at a leisurely, controlled pace now do as they wish, pushing you towards the edge with ease.

When you arch a little, you feel cooler air hit a little more of the tops of your breasts and wonder if you're risking raising your nipples above the water. If so, so be it.

Your moans are wordless and more subtle this time, but you make sure they're loud enough for her to hear.

The bath water sloshes a little.

By the time you can open your eyes again, you see hers squeezed shut. You release a couple of extra moans for her benefit, not wanting to leave her too far behind you.

With your fingers still moving slowly underwater, you watch it hit her.

Oh, is this beautiful. More beautiful than before, and not just because she's better lit this time. That time had been all shock. This time looks more like pleasure. And Jane in pleasure is the most breathtaking thing you've ever seen.

Her blurry body jerks subtly, ungainly and lovable and gorgeous. Thrillingly low breaths echo faintly off the tile.

Mesmerized, you forget your fingers inside yourself.

She's still catching her breath when she shuts the water off. Then eases a look over to you and grins, sheepish but genuine. That grin melts you in a different way than she'd already melted you a few seconds ago.

You grin back.


	19. I would if you asked

**I got behind schedule, hope you don't mind some residual Christmas feels. I really appreciate the encouragement, thank you to everyone who takes a moment to review, you really make my day.**

* * *

The water was a good idea.

Jane asks for a few repeat performances, all of which you indulge happily.

Until one evening she comes to you in your office in her pajamas and reports, hesitating to look proud, to tell you she has managed on her own. You offer a congratulatory hug, like a mother proud that her baby is growing up so fast. And you ignore the stab of sorrow that your involvement is no longer necessary.

This soon ceases to be a novel achievement.

It's your house she wants to go to every day after work now, and she's taking showers in the morning and almost every evening as well. You know that it only takes her three minutes of running water to take a real shower. Most of these are longer.

Without being asked to join, you leave her her privacy.

You remark that she's becoming the cleanest person you know. She says she has to make up for lost time, and offers to pay your water bill. That might have been a joke.

She also says if it were possible to lay down in your shower, you'd never see her outside of it again. That was definitely a joke. Although...

Later she sees you shopping for waterproof lounge chairs online and, three minutes later, across the room and in mid-sentence about something else, gasps scandalously and makes you promise not to buy one. You just wanted her to be comfortable.

What you _do_ buy is a shower head for her apartment, the same model as yours. When it arrives, she'll insist you send it back because it's too expensive. When you suggest that Frankie would be happy to help her install it, she'll be outraged enough to have to prove to you that she can install it herself.

Really, you are happy for her to have that piece of her independence back. This is good. She's been a bit more mellow lately. You might even have seen Frost notice.

You shouldn't be concerned with where this leaves you.

Tonight, it leaves you sitting down slightly wet to a dinner you watched overcook because all you could think about was Jane upstairs, 'showering'.

* * *

"Can I ask you something?"

Normally you'd be annoyed at someone talking over the nightly news when you're actually paying attention, but she normally doesn't ask to ask unless it's something worth an interruption.

"Sure."

"Did I do something to... how come you quit taking baths?"

"To give you privacy," you reply, although your surprise makes it come out sounding like a question. "You haven't invited me."

"Oh. I didn't know you were waiting for an invitation every time. I thought we just had a routine going."

"Oh."

She takes a pull of beer. You hear the tinkling slosh of liquid in her nearly-empty bottle.

"Just 'cause I _can_... anyway. Standing invitation, FYI."

"Okay," you smile at your lap. "Thank you for letting me know."

"Unless that's weird, then never mind."

"I'll be there with no bells on."

She snorts with a mouthful of beer, wiping her chin. Proud, you try not to grin for too long.

Another news story proves less interesting than its headline.

"Can I ask you something else?"

"Of course."

"You know that stuff you said... that night. About how you'd really do what we were talking about."

"I remember..."

"You don't... that's not something you meant, right? I mean.. that was just sex talk...?"

You wouldn't lie even if you were able.

"They aren't mutually exclusive."

You've thought about the same thing - whether she could have meant any of the things she said. About how she'd trust you. About how she'd let you and only you. Oh, how you'd loved hearing that. _That_ was just sex talk.

Her brows rise.

"So if I just asked you to do it, you would?" she looks into your eyes for a second before seeing the reality of the moment. "I'm not asking. But.. you would?"

You know two things. One, she really isn't asking. But two, she likes the thought.

"I know you're not, and yes I would."

Her knee starts bouncing slightly, and you smile to yourself, wondering if she knows about that habit.

To avoid putting any pressure on this conversation, you pretend that your attention has returned to the TV. In actuality, you're doing nothing but monitoring her in your peripheral vision.

"Seriously?" she asks quite some time later.

You smile and look over. She's looking at you out the corner of her eyes, skeptical and intrigued.

If it were anyone else, you'd be convinced they were hinting. But you know her, and she can't possibly be. Though you've _discussed_ plenty more, she doesn't really want to do so much as kiss you; there's no way she would suddenly want you to give her oral sex right here on the couch (although that's something to think about later).

The knowledge that you _would_ is simply stuck under her skin. Maybe she's aroused, or wants to be. Maybe she wants to give herself another try without the aid of your shower.

"See that spot?" you point between her shoes.

She cranes her neck a little forward to look, like there's something on the floor.

"I know you weren't asking. Because that's where I'd be right now, on my knees, if you were."

Maybe it's because you delivered that information in a friendly and matter-of-fact manner instead of a seductive one, that it seems to take her a moment to register what you said.

Her eyes widen slightly. No one says anything. Her knee bounces in silence for several more minutes of news.

The way she keeps looking down toward the space between her legs, you strongly suspect she might be envisioning you there.

"What if I asked just to see how that'd look?" she asks, picking at the label on her bottle which has now been empty for some time. "Not _do_ anything, just..."

You think you understand what this is.

She just wants to exercise some of the control you're offering her - not as a matter of dominance or anything, but maybe to test, to sample. To see she can trust you to do as she asks.

You want to show her that she's as safe with you as if she were controlling your actions herself. That you'd do anything for her. That you'd get as close as she asked and not a millimeter closer.

"Then I'd do as you asked," you respond. "Are you asking?"

Seeming to gather courage first, she replies with a tiny nod.

You shift off the couch and onto the floor - but not quite into the spot you'd pointed out. The space you'd planned on occupying was between knees that have since joined firmly together. You kneel before them instead of between them.

She's watching you wide-eyed and unblinkingly, clutching her empty bottle with both hands, looking equally aroused and ready to leap up and run.

You aren't totally sure what you're supposed to do. You aren't sure she knows, either.

Easing her knees apart would be very inappropriate. The reassuring caress you consider giving them might be, too. You keep your hands to yourself and look up to her for guidance.

"What would you like to see?"

"Nothing," she answers quickly.

You smile understandingly, a smile for a friend. Whatever had seemed enticing in her mind, she doesn't seem to be prepared for in reality. Or maybe she didn't have anything in mind. Maybe she didn't think this through beyond just seeing if you'd really move to the floor.

"Never mind?" you ask, giving her an easy out.

"I.. I guess," she blushes. "I thought... sorry."

"That's okay."

She swallows, still watching you with caution.

"You would've, though. Like.. right here."

"I would've," you confirm yet again, smiling patiently, pushing yourself back up onto the seat next to her.

Soon she relaxes enough for that one leg to resume bouncing. Many of your next sidelong glances find her eyes not on the TV screen, but still looking down.

"You're still thinking about it," you smirk knowingly after a while.

"Well, you can't say a thing like that and then expect me not to think about it."

Laughing, you scoot next to Jane and slip your arm around her, intending to lay your head against her shoulder like you often do. Instead you feel her flinch, and you jerk your arm away.

"Sorry," you blurt immediately, though not knowing why. You didn't touch her anywhere you haven't touched her before on a regular basis.

She looks down at her own abdomen whose muscles had leapt from your touch, like she's just as surprised.

"You didn't do anything," she replies, sounding a little confused, still eyeing you with a little concern.

Crushed and disappointed in yourself for making her feel _less_ comfortable, you put several inches' distance between you, folding your hands in your lap where she can see them.

This doesn't appear to make her any happier.

"I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable," you apologize quietly, your voice sounding even smaller than you expected it to. "I was.. forward."

"No, you didn't. You didn't do anything. It's me. Please come back over here?"

Cautiously you oblige, moving close again, but making no move to touch her.

"I don't understand," you admit. "Did I... hurt you? Surprise you?"

"No. I think it's just that... context matters," she swallows.

You think for a moment.

The memory comes to your mind of a specific facial expression of hers. You place it from that night, months ago now, when you'd joined her in bed and she acted like you might pounce on her.

"Are you aroused?"

"Do you have to call it that?" she asks, softening the words with a slight smirk. "Kind of, yeah."

"So it makes you uncomfortable to be touched when you're arou- turned on?"

"It's how we were just talking a minute ago, I think. I was still kind of... thinking about you.. like that."

The reason you can be so close with her is that she considers you safe, your contact non-sexual. Not a threat. Not someone she's attracted to. Thinking about you sexually must make you feel unsafe.

"So when you're in that frame of mind, and I put my arm around you, even the way I always do, it feels like a sexual situation? And that makes you uncomfortable?"

"I.." she shakes her head, smiling, rubbing her eye. "I know it wasn't."

"Jane, you know I never intended to actually _do_ anything, right? That my whole point was to show you I wouldn't do anything more than you asked, even if I was close. You never have to worry about me touching you in any way that you don't invite me to. Okay?"

"I know." She says it gently, like receiving your words carefully in cupped hands. "I never thought you would. It was just a weird reaction."

"Okay. Well, I'll be mindful of when I can be close to you and when I can't." There's a silent beat. "So.. which do you want right now?"

As far as you can tell, the rest of the evening could have been about to go either way, and you aren't sure whether she wants it to heat up or cool off. When you look at her, you get the feeling she's trying to decide the same thing.

Ultimately she lifts her arm a bit in invitation, making space for you to slide yours around her.

You get the message, but pause. Not much time has passed, and you wonder if she's just going to flinch again.

What can you say to make her more comfortable?

"Did you know that in order to keep cool, some species of birds use a behavior known as urohidrosis, in which they defecate on their legs to take advantage of the evaporative cooling properties of the fluids?"

Jane stares back with no change in her expression, apart from her lips tightening into a thinner line. Arm still hovering.

"I... did not."

"Are you less aroused now?"

She closes her eyes, looking both disgusted and appreciative.

"Considerably."

You lean into her, and her oblique muscles barely tense when your hand slides around them.

"Who knew your fun facts would come in handy?" she snorts.

* * *

December 25th is cold and white.

It's a splendorous tree of silver, a hundred feet tall to your young eyes, erected in your absence by the interior designer. It's standing by the window, pointing out to an empty room that it's starting to snow outside.

It's getting in a car alone at the end of a function where you didn't know anyone better than anyone else. It's finding extra work to do from home pertaining to cases that are already closed.

On years when you're single or an appropriate social function fails to present itself, you typically spend it alone. You aren't religious, and it's not as if you have any close family to feel homesick for, so you don't know why lacking plans with them on that day should bother you.

It's not that you're bitter or jealous. It just stings a little when you know families are gathered together like Norman Rockwell paintings in every home but yours.

Your own family togetherness consisted of the receipt of the standard card, "Season's greetings from Arthur and Constance Isles," issued to friends and colleagues each December. Some years, presumably if time allows, you get one with "Love, Mother and Father" added in your mother's tiny, neat script. Those go in the third desk drawer. The uncustomized ones, like this year's, go in the trash.

Jane's having her family over for Christmas.

When you come to her apartment on December 10th you find that a balsam fir tree, your height and slightly lopsided, has appeared in the corner of her living room. As soon as you ask why it's naked, she thanks you facetiously for volunteering to help decorate it. It makes you happy when you wonder if she was waiting to do so with you.

As Symmetry Supervisor you direct her stringing of multicolored lights, and then are given one box of plain red glass ornaments from the top shelf of her closet.

While you distribute them among the branches, she tells you not to worry about bringing presents, that Rizzoli Christmas gifts are food only - that is, except for small Rizzolis, but none of those are coming, just her mother and brothers.

She seems to realize her presumption right after you do, when your eyes meet over the pine needles.

For the first time, not being invited to something makes you happy. She's just talking to you like you're obviously coming, which is even better than an invitation.

A clarification gets added that you probably have other plans, but that they'd all love to have you if you wanted to come.

For the sake of your pride, you could pretend you did have other plans to consider. You don't. You'd love to go to Rizzoli Christmas and you say so and you hang a goofy scarlet fisheye reflection of your grinning face on the tree.

Christmas is warm and colorful. It's people hugging you and coveting baked goods and talking a little too loud.

All you do there is eat and talk and watch a movie; in actual events, it's not that different from any regular day when her family members have stopped by. You cannot quite put your finger on what is magical about this. Little things keep happening that make you feel... something.

When you glance down at your heels among four pairs of socked feet and decide you might fit in better barefoot, Jane disappears toward her bedroom and reappears with some socks from her dresser. They don't go with your outfit. At all. But they're warm and you keep looking down to wiggle your toes and enjoy how you match, and at least twice, she sees you doing that and smiles.

Frankie has a habit that makes him a treasured resource for you. Right after laughing at at joke, he sometimes comments to no one in particular what he'd found so funny about it - which is great for you, because when you didn't get the joke, you can follow that comment like a breadcrumb trail and sometimes even get in on the laugh before it's over. Knowing Jane never likes to hear the obvious stated, you glance over at her when this happens, but instead of rolling eyes you only ever find her smiling at him fondly. After a while, you realize Frankie only does this after jokes that everyone laughed at except you. He's going to be a detective someday.

When you're nestled on the couch between Jane and Tommy, they both keep offering you whatever they're eating, although in Tommy's case it might be an attempt to woo you. It's hard to clamp down a chuckle when he goes to put his arm across the back of the couch and finds that Jane's is already there. You wonder with amusement about the power dynamics among these siblings growing up.

Sitting together watching the movie, you sneak sideways glances at all their glowing faces, happily confused about why these people are treating you like you belong among them. About why you feel like... well, you'd say like a sibling, but you have no idea what being a sibling feels like, but you feel like more than a guest. Jane catches the look on your face, and the soft one she she gives you in return leaves you misty.

Angela includes you in a group hug with all her children at the end of the night, and you're 99% sure it isn't by mistake.

When the others have left and you're helping clean up, you find an untouched and unmentioned tiramisu in the refrigerator. That's the same thing you brought, and Angela had put yours on the table instead and raved about it.

The best part of the evening is not having to leave at the end.

It's when it's just the two of you and the Christmas tree is the last light left on in the living room. It's when you unplug it and it's dark and movement around the streetlight outside catches your eye and you move the curtain and point out that it's snowing.

It's Jane joining you by the window and linking her arms around you, and it's watching the snow fall with your head on her shoulder. It's when she realizes you're crying a little bit, and kisses your temple instead of asking you to explain why.


	20. I trust you

You wonder if Olympic athletes get more satisfaction from breaking someone else's record, or their own.

You want to hang another gold medal around Jane's neck every time she comes. Each has been the new most beautiful thing you've ever witnessed.

The first night she slips a hand beneath your bedsheets and finally comes at her own touch, you truly do not breathe for the duration. The proximity has you too overwhelmed.

In you darkened room you can't really see her, otherwise your senses would probably be overloaded. You're amazed just to be close enough that you could - you wouldn't, but you could - reach out and touch her. Just to feel the movement of her hips pulling on the sheets and shifting the mattress. Just to hear, from inches away, what no one else is allowed to.

She isn't all that vocal. She doesn't have to be to excite you. The overt sounds of her pleasure are fairly few - low ones that come right out through her throat. From this close, you can hear the tiny sounds - every subtle jagged inhale, every catch in the back of her throat - that somehow excite you much more.

This becomes a regular routine.

Many nights, of course, you still just fall asleep in the comfort of each others' company.

But many others, you lay side by side in bed, composing some kind of sexual narrative together until her left hand disappears beneath the sheets.

Sometimes you'll just prop your head on your hand, grinning and savoring the moment. That yes, it's real. That yes, Jane is masturbating in bed next to you. That yes, by some arrangement of circumstances, you do have her permission to listen.

Unable to touch her with your hands, you touch her with your voice; you'll lean in close and slip velvety words of encouragement into her ear. How good you know it feels. How giving her body that release is going to wash her in endorphins that will make her stronger. Sexier. More confident. Sick less often, faster to heal, easier to sleep.

If you're in her bedroom where there's enough light, you like to watch the lump under the blanket moving subtly, and know she is massaging herself to your words.

Usually you let Jane lead, and it'll be her sort of fantasy. The sweet ones. The ones that are her idea of "you," the perfect lover, going above and beyond for her comfort, and your idea of the exact love you'd really make to her. Afterwards, you hold her close against the heart that's melting for her.

Sometimes she wants to hear yours. The harder ones. The things you'd want her to do to you, if her needs were not the ones at the forefront of your mind. You haven't gotten up the nerve to say you want her to fuck you; it still seems too bold, but that's exactly what you mean and you're running out of euphemisms. Even so, you both come sooner on those nights, and afterwards, it's she who gathers you into her arms.

Maybe this is the plateau.

As much as you privately wish for more, you don't _expect_ more. You never try to make it more.

Each time you crave a touch other than your own, you remember your last time, when it did you no good because the only touch you wanted was Jane's. You'd rather have her company and your own touch than emotionally uncomfortable, distracted sex with someone else.

It can't be like this forever. But it's not meant to be, and for now, you aren't complaining.

You could listen to her a thousand times and each would still be a privilege.

* * *

You've sampled virtually every luxurious spa treatment in existence, and none feel quite as good as plopping down into your chair does right now.

It's mid-afternoon, your lower back is aching and you're craving something sugary. And there in front of you, like a magic trick, is a bakery baggie containing one unexplained, plain, glazed donut.

Jane would warn you not to eat the mystery donut.

The mystery donut is almost certainly _from_ Jane.

By the time you've finished weighing these facts, you have finished eating the mystery donut.

You're too busy at the moment to text her and ask, and it slips your mind entirely until you meet her upstairs at the very end of the day.

"Oh! Was it you who left me a donut earlier?"

"Yeah," she answers, shrugging on her blazer and pulling her hair out from underneath it.

"Giving the Doc your donut?" Detective Crowe pauses momentarily on his way out of the bullpen, looking amused before disappearing around the corner. "Subtle, Rizzoli."

"What was that?" you look back to her, questioningly.

"That was a dipshit being a dipshit," she rolls her eyes after him.

"Oh! I get it. Cops and donuts. I'm not sure why that stereotype is still so pervasive."

"..Right."

"Well, anyway, thank you! That was a nice surprise. I was actually just craving something sweet." No one else is nearby, so you add, "I started my period today."

"Yeah, I know," she glances around anyway. "That's why the donut, and that's why the back rub."

"How did you know? And what back rub?"

"I'm a detective," she replies, opening the door for you. "And the one you get when we get home, if you want, 'cause I assume your back hurts."

"It does," you grin as you pass her. "I would love that."

She spends the elevator ride venting about the case. You do honestly try to listen, but your mind doesn't want to let go of the previous topic yet.

The male reaction to your period usually falls somewhere between total obliviousness and thinly veiled annoyance. Nobody you've dated has ever done anything thoughtful for the occasion.

That's a dangerous train of thought. You aren't dating Jane. You spend the walk to the car telling yourself sternly again that this. is. not. a. relationship.

But it doesn't matter.

The facts are that you're going home with Jane, and she's going to rub your back because she cares about you, and you're going to make and eat dinner together and later you're going to fall asleep in her arms. And that doesn't have to be called a relationship to make you happy.

* * *

"Go on."

Eagerness and concern have been battling for the top spot on your list of reactions.

"S'matter?" she looks up at you, so you guess concern has won.

"Are you sure this is appropriate?" you ask, sitting back on the middle of her bed.

"Why wouldn't it be? You've been helping me with other stuff this way."

She surprised you by asking if you remembered the day when she'd reacted nervously to you putting your arm around her. (Of course you did.) That hasn't been sitting well with her, and tonight, she asked if you'd help her work more on getting used to being touched.

Now she's laying flat on her bed - tank top, pajama bottoms. Lights on. Your assignment: touch her so she can see how she takes it.

You'd selected the decidedly safe starting point of her hands, and worked your way up her arm and touched her clavicle before she started showing any hint of discomfort. And instead of continuing, you had paused there with uncertainty.

There's no reason why the idea of touching her in a completely non-sexual and doctorly way should make you uneasy. A temptation to touch her in ways you oughtn't is not an issue; you would never do that, and she knows it. But still, something is nagging you about this.

Until she speaks again, you don't realize you haven't responded.

"Hey, I don't wanna make you do anything you feel weird about, we can forget-"

"No, it's nothing like that," you shake your head. "I just want to be sure that..."

"What?"

It takes you a moment longer to fit your concern into words.

"Are you sure you have a problem being touched, period? Because not being comfortable with _certain_ people touching you is okay. If it's that I'm a woman, or... that I'm me... that's something we should respect, not 'work on'."

She just looks you for a few moments, her eyes examining each of yours in turn. A fond smile grows on her face so gradually that you don't notice until it's complete.

Her hand skims over her bedspread towards yours and you close the gap, letting her link your fingers together.

"It's not just you. If I could be comfortable at all, it would be with you."

Sometimes she says unknowable things with such confidence that you're tempted to believe her.

Nobody has touched her like this in years. Hardly anybody has touched her at all - probably only medical examinations and a few hugs from immediate family. A conclusion like that requires a comparison she can't possibly make.

"But how do you _know_ that?" You lay down next to her, facing her, slipping your free hand under your pillow. "You haven't let _anyone_ touch you. You don't have enough data to reach that conclusion."

Jane smiles. The warm and amused and crinkly-eyed kind.

She is startlingly beautiful. You wonder how it's possible to look at her as much as you do, and still be so suddenly struck by it sometimes.

"Knowing you is all the data I need." Her fingers squeeze yours, gently distracting you from forming any further protest. "Don't worry. I just know, okay?"

You look into her eyes for assurance and nod. She lets go of your fingers.

Watching her face, you press lightly at her chest just below her jugular notch. No big reaction. She nods at you, indicating it's okay and to continue somewhere else.

Next you're going to touch her throat. You already know she isn't going to like it, even if you don't directly touch the thin silvery scar. She tenses, her head pulling back slightly as if she can sink into the pillow away from your touch, and you feel her anxiety spike.

Immediately you remove your hand, giving her an apologetic look.

She shakes her head, like saying it's okay, and takes a deep breath.

"Go on."

You've touched her throat before - never directly, but you've slept with your nose tucked against her neck, for instance. But when her body is on guard, and your touch is deliberate, the rules are different.

If you were being really thorough, your pattern would now lead toward her breasts. But this touching is just for harmless places, as she would call them. She didn't tell you that, because she didn't have to. You know her.

You show her you know her. When your descending touches skip her breasts entirely, you detect relief, but not surprise.

It would probably be inappropriate to compliment right now, but you can't help but notice the firmness of her abdominal muscles when they tense under your contact.

Her own hands keep moving around, but to no particular end. You suspect that she's resisting her reflex to grab at your hands.

Virtually everywhere you touch her abdomen, sides, hips and thighs results in a slight flinch or tension, but no extreme anxiety.

"Were you just being pessimistic?" you ask. "This doesn't seem as bad as you were concerned it would be."

"I guess not _as_ bad," she nods at you to continue.

"These are normal places to be ticklish, you know. Are you sure that isn't part of it?"

"That might-"

You touch her inner thigh, just above her knee, and you intentionally do it firmly so that it doesn't tickle. Her entire body jerks away so hard that you flinch, too.

"Sorry!" you both blurt immediately.

That had nothing to do with ticklishness. You realize that pressure might have felt like an attempt to spread her legs.

"I'm so sorry, I wasn't-"

"I know," she pats your hand.

She turns toward you, and you catch her rolling her eyes at herself just before she tucks her face into the fold of her arm.

No harm seems done, but you don't have to be told she needs to take a break, if not stop. You you stroke your thumb over her knuckles, lovingly and apologetically.

"Should we go to sleep?" you ask after a little while.

With a sigh, she lets her arm fall flat to the pillows. You smile automatically at seeing her eyes again.

"No," she says decisively. She sits up, folding her legs under herself and giving her face a hard rub with both hands. "Maybe sitting is better."

You mirror her position and carefully place both hands on her legs. Her muscles twitch slightly, and you stay still while you feel her trying to relax.

The wetter her eyes get, the more they avoid yours. By the time a tear actually overflows her lashes, she is using the excuse of watching your hands to avoid looking into your eyes.

These aren't happy tears, but they aren't quite her sad or upset ones. These are of the category you never know how to label. The result of a cocktail of emotions that she isn't sure how to process.

"When you cry like that," you say softly, "I wish I knew every reason why, so I could try to make them all better."

You can see her jaw work a little before she replies.

"'Cause I'm scared, and then frustrated that I'm scared, and then embarrassed that I'm frustrated..."

"I'm scaring you?" You clap both hands to your own chest. "Tell me how and I'll never do it again?"

She shakes her head, almost smiling.

"You're not scaring me. I'm just.. scared. In a vague sense."

You relax only a little.

"What are you afraid of?"

"Just things the little asshole voice in my head tells me to worry about."

"Like what?"

"That... that I'm taking too long. Making too big a deal, making it worse," she wipes her eye. "That this is getting tedious. That you might not be so patient forever. I.. I dreamed that once."

"What?" you ask, concerned. "What did you dream?"

"I asked you to... to do something. Kind of along these lines. But then I was taking so long to actually let you. Hours and hours. I wanted it but I couldn't get comfortable. But then finally you just went ahead and did it."

Your face falls.

"You didn't hurt me or anything," she adds quickly. "You just switched your style - you know, teaching me to swim by throwing me in the pool, when that isn't usually your thing. I feel safe because I know what to expect from you.. but then you surprised me, and.." she shrugs.

Part of you wants to ask what exactly you went ahead and did in this dream. Part of you knows it doesn't matter because that fear can apply to anything you might do.

"I'm so sorry.."

"Don't be, you didn't do anything."

"But you still have that in your mind. Jane, you don't ever have to be afraid of me doing that."

"I know. It was just a dream. I know what's real and what's not."

The idea of her fearing, even illogically, that your patience might run out is a thought you can't bear.

"Maura?" she finds your eyes when you're quiet for a second too long. "Please touch me? I mean, please don't _not_ touch me 'cause I told you that. I didn't mean anything by it."

You pull her into a hug, still not answering because your throat is hurting from the lump in it.

"Sorry.. maybe I shouldn't have told you that. I don't wanna make you feel bad, you've never done anything to make me think that. It's just me being screwed up."

"You are not," you insist. "You're wonderful and you can tell me anything. It just makes me sick to think you might be worrying like that... I don't care how long it takes, I would never do anything to you without you being completely ready. I promise."

"I know that."

"Even if you do, you hear this," you insist, pulling back to look her in the eye. "I would never. ever. do anything to rush you. Or force you, or surprise you, or, or... pressure you, or..."

"I know."

"I want you to always know exactly what to expect from me. Your trust is so important to me. Nothing could entice me to jeopardize that for one instant. I would _never_. I will never."

"I know," she whispers, smiling a little at your fervor.

"Never," you repeat anyway.

"I know. I know. None of that's news. You show me that all the time. That's why I'm embarrassed."

"What do you mean?"

"You have to keep telling me the same stuff I already know... it looks like I don't trust you even though I do, even after you've shown me over and over that I can. I feel like a coward."

"You are not," you disagree, affronted.

"I'm flinching every single time you touch me," she points out, as if this is undeniable proof.

"You think that makes you a coward?"

"Well?"

"I think it makes you brave."

"Oh, don't give me that," she scowls dismissively.

"I think you're brave and you can't stop me."

"Don't call me that. Look. I love you for being as patient and as good to me as you are. I.. you have no idea. But you don't have to invent some bullshit about how flinching and crying when the sweetest person in the world touches me is _brave_ , too."

"It is not bullshit. You're uncomfortable. Scared, even. But you're not letting what you feel overrule what you know. You're in a place right now that's going to take work to move past, and having me do this is _work_. Every flinch is _work_. It's progress."

You press both hands flat to her abdomen, which hardens immediately against your touch. Her hands grab your wrists reflexively, but then do nothing to move them.

"See? You know you could tell me to stop any time, but you're not. You're deciding to keep going, even though it feels uncomfortable. So don't _you_ give me _your_ bullshit about being a coward when you're proving to me right this second that you aren't."

She looks back at you like she's trying to decide whether to buy it. Her face seems stuck between doubt, a hopeful smile, and the onset of more tears.

"And I'll tell you as many times as I have to," you add, "I don't care one bit if you cry. Only, cry proud _,_ because you're working hard. Cry safe with me, because I love you. Alright?"

Her eyes close for a bit, and then she leans forward. You aren't sure what's happening until her forehead comes to rest against yours. Too close to focus, you close your eyes too.

"I trust you," she says after a while.

She takes your right hand and places it flat just above her breast, where you feel her heartbeat beneath your palm.

You feel her breathing close against your face.

"I trust you."

It takes you a second to realize that the slight sensation you feel against your lips is... lips. And just as quickly, they are gone.

She pulls back like she's just as surprised as you are. Like you might not have approved of that.

"Sorry, I..."

"Don't be," you assure her.

"I should've asked. For a second I just honestly forgot we've never done that."

"I know what you mean," you smile. How many times have you almost done that?

There was never any agreement between you not to kiss. But something about kissing seems so... personal, in a way that even your other activities are not.

"You're... I just..." she stammers, casting about for an explanation as if you have demanded one.

You know not to make too much of this, and you hope she doesn't think you are. It was just the result of being physically and emotionally close. It had simply been a kissing moment if ever one existed. It had not been premeditated.

"I _trust_ you." A new tear spills down the previous one's track. And you know that that is not merely another repetition; that _is_ her explanation.

As she watches for your response with her brows worried and her nose pink and her heart hammering under your palm, all you want to do is kiss her.

You satisfy yourself by leaning in with chaste precision and kissing that tear from her cheek.

Her hands cup your jaw and you feel her cheek skim under your lips until _oh._

This one is premeditated. And it is far lovelier than you've been forbidding yourself to imagine.

Her lips on yours are not shy, but are slow, and soft, and the mutual tenderness of it is nearly heart-stopping.

You pour your feelings ever so gently into this kiss and warmth radiates through your entire body.

The hand that is not over her heart, you move and touch against her side. She tenses and her kiss stutters but does not stop.

"Brave," you murmur against her lips.

A warm droplet spills against your nose.

And you move your hand again, and you feel her abdominal muscles contract.

"Strong," you whisper, and meld your lips gently with hers.

You feel a slight vibration under your hand, and if you aren't mistaken, a quiet growl.

"Hungry...?"

She ducks to the side to laugh, her hands slipping to your shoulders. You watch her laugh fade back to a grin, eyes still shimmering.

"Beautiful."

You return your hands to your own lap and hold her now only with your gaze. It becomes a long and warm and searching one, each of you trying to see what this means to the other. After a while you aren't even thinking anymore. You're just lost in her eyes.

It's Jane who eventually speaks, and she does it quietly, as if a normal volume would pierce the moment.

"I'm not sure what this is, but.. is it safe to say we're both beyond whatever it was supposed to be at first?"

You smile softly and nod.

"We should probably talk," she says, looking at your mouth instead of your eyes.

"Probably so."

"Not now, though." Her lips return to yours.


	21. Penny for your thoughts

**IT'S ALIVE! Sorry for the wait, thanks everyone who asked, I'm fine... does life ever get you so busy that you're too tired to have any feelings? That. So sorry if this chap sucks but, that's the longest I'm going to work on it!**

* * *

She's already awake, flat on her back and looking at the ceiling.

Laying still also, you spend the first couple minutes of your day trying to sort your memories from your dreams.

She definitely kissed you last night. That part you know for sure, and nothing (save a traumatic injury to your temporal lobe) can take it away from you.

The part you have to think about longer was in the middle of the night, when she felt you stir, and she asked if she could kiss you again. You'd grinned a grin so smitten it was audible in the dark, not because _of course_ , but because it was cute how she asked.

She asked sleepy, and it stayed sleepy. She only scooted a little closer and kissed you with both your heads still resting on your pillows and your fingers linked under the sheets. Dreamily light, lazy kisses that lasted... you have no idea how long. You loved it. Even more tender than before, barely open-mouthed at all, in fact at times it seemed almost like a competition to see who could kiss more softly.

If you were a little more naive, you might have expected kisses that felt so innocent not to arouse you. But it was a gentle sort, not frustrating. Just there patiently, pleasantly in the background, had you needed it.

You have kissed, and been kissed, in a lot of different ways. But none quite like that.

You wondered what conversation the morning would bring. It's time to find out.

"A penny for your thoughts?" you ask.

She doesn't even blink. Maybe she already knew you were awake.

"Penny's not gonna cover it. You got a big-ass change jar someplace? Where half of it's like rusty doubloons and Chuck E Cheese tokens and pennies you smashed on the train tracks? That'd be a fairer trade."

You close your still-heavy lids and smile twice, once for how much you love the gravel in her voice and again when you process what she'd actually said.

"I've never been to a Chuck E Cheese or smashed any pennies, and Spanish doubloons were made of gold; they wouldn't rust."

You wait to chuckle under your breath until you hear her sigh. She knows you do that on purpose (sometimes).

"'Bout you? You have a penny's worth?"

Let's see...

You love the way her long hair looks so wild on the pillow even after a peaceful night of sleep. That's a penny. You love the tiny lines around her eyes. That's a penny, or would it be two? You love the shape of her brows and every plane and angle of her features and the fact that you get to see them as soon as you wake up in the morning. You love that she's still here and hasn't run from you. She may need a change jar as well.

You'd better try something right to the point.

"I really liked kissing you."

"Me too." You catch her smiling a little to herself. "Did you mean it?"

"Mean what?"

"How you kissed me. Did you mean it? Or do you just kiss like that all the time?"

You could tease her about those not being mutually exclusive, but maybe now isn't the time. She's still looking at the ceiling and maybe that's because she doesn't want you to see her eyes if your answer hurts.

"I meant every word," you answer, finding her hand in the sheets and slipping your fingertips lightly between hers. The eye contact you hoped for doesn't happen.

"Then I'm confused."

"How so?"

"That didn't jive with your rules."

"Rules?"

"What you've told me about how you feel about.. y'know, men and women and relationships and.. stuff."

You smile inwardly. She thinks you can only be romantically attracted to men - and to be fair, that usually has been the case. She thinks you cannot care about her in any way between friendship and lust, neither of which explains that kiss.

None of the reasons you've been keeping your feelings to yourself now seem worth complicating whatever is going on here. You owe it to her to be forthright.

"Well.. those aren't hard rules. And you've always been kind of a rulebreaker."

That's what finally gets you your eye contact, and a slow smile. It's unsurprised, cautious. She likes this, but she's making some effort to school her features. Maybe she's flattered and nothing more.

"Yeah?"

You nod, smiling. It feels good to get that out in the open.

"How come you didn't say anything?" she asks.

"I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. Still don't. I promised I'd never expect this to become more than we first agreed. So I'm not saying this hoping you're going to say you feel the same... I'm just telling you because you deserve to know."

"I.." she stops and starts a couple of times, glancing away. Looking torn.

"It's okay. Really. I haven't forgotten any of the reasons why you wouldn't," you try to relieve her of the burden of explaining herself. "There were a lot of emotions in that moment... maybe you just felt like being close. You can kiss me without worrying I'll assume it's really about me."

You are saying these words half to her and half to yourself.

She rolls her head on her pillow to look fully at you, her face a blend of so many emotions that you fail to identify any main one.

"Was that what that felt like to you?"

"I.." you pause, your cheeks feeling warm. "No. It... _felt_ like more to me. But.. I know better. I know what we agreed, I know what I promised."

She reaches up and rubs her face hard with both hands, which is not usually an indicator of happiness.

The harder you try to think of what to say to remove the unwelcome silence from your bed, the more time seems to slow down.

"Sometimes when we're working a case, and we've got a few pieces up on the board and we're trying to fit it all together... there'll be a theory we keep looking at. A hunch. Even though there's alibis in the way and it's full of holes and we've already been over it a hundred times, and it just can't be. There'll just be something about that one hunch we keep coming back to..."

She keeps staring at the ceiling until you realize this is where you're supposed to prompt her.

"What's your hunch?"

You wait patiently. She bites her lips together for a moment, and it makes those dimples sink deep into her cheeks. If this were a lighter conversation you might reach out and touch one.

"Sometimes I think I'm falling in love with you."

Part of you is glad she doesn't look over to watch your reaction to that. Because you didn't think it was possible to feel like your heart is sinking and soaring at once.

It's your favorite theory you've ever heard, but wanting it to be true does not make it so.

Jane is not a stupid woman, but there are complex emotions at play here, ones that might be influencing her better judgment. You've been sharing intensely private, personal things, things that have formed an attachment between you that she could easily be misidentifying. Maybe you're a safe and reliable source of physical comfort and pleasure for her, and it makes her feel good, and she's mistaking that for romantic love.

Or maybe that's the exact way people really do fall in love. Fearing it it's untrue doesn't make that so, either.

"I haven't wanted to say so in case... in case I better not trust myself. In case I was misinterpreting stuff. In case I'm just in a weird place emotionally and I'm thinking it's something else."

You're at least glad to hear that she's taking that possibility into account. It would've been awful to have to think of a way to suggest it to her.

"But I can tell you one thing for sure," she continues. "That was the most about-you that kiss could possibly have been. That was me trying to tell you how I feel... I had to tell you but I don't know what it is in English."

You smile understandingly, content just to look at her until you realize it's been your turn to respond for a while. To the fact that she just told you she might be in love with you. How you dropped the ball on that, you aren't sure.

You prepare a statement, but all that comes out of your mouth are the consonants in her name. And you bring her hand to your lips and kiss the backs of her cold fingers. The way she looks at you then, makes you think that maybe your face said what you meant better than your voice meant to.

"What do I do?" She looks back and forth between your eyes, like they each hold half the answer and she can't afford to miss any. She thinks you're smart. A brilliant, objective cyborg that always knows the right thing to do. She's really asking.

"What do you do at work when you have a hunch?"

"Follow it..." she answers slowly, "and see if we hit a dead end or not."

You give your head a tilt, unable to suggest a better plan. Something makes you warm inside about seeing the familiar pattern even in the processes of someone who claims to have no interest in or understanding of science.

"Following a hunch means testing a hypothesis." You stretch lazily. "You use different terminology, but you're still following the scientific method. I love that."

"Nerd," she calls you with half a breath, the most affectionately you ever have been.

"Then so are you."

She smiles and closes her eyes.

"Look, Jane... I'm not going to encourage you to dismiss your concerns just because I'd love it if your hunch was true... but I'm still here however you need me to be. And whatever the conclusion turns out to be, is going to be okay with me."

The respect on her face makes you wonder if what preceded it was disappointment. You could've written yourself as a prescription for her just now, and she would've filled it without question, just glad to be unburdened of the decision. And she knows it.

"See, that's exactly the kind of.." she shakes her head and expels a breath. "I love you. That feels good to say."

You indulge yourself in a tiny kiss to her cheekbone.

"I love you too, Jane. Thank you for telling me."

You don't fully appreciate the loveliness of her expression, just looking at you close-up and sideways and honest, until it sours when she looks somewhere past you. The clock. This is a work day.

You watch her struggle between having a lot more to say, not knowing what to say, and knowing there isn't enough time to deepen this conversation now anyway. Maybe it's better. The day will give her thoughts some time to gel.

"We'll stay in tonight, okay?" you offer, as if this has not been your default for months. "Maybe watch something."

As much as you like to approach everything in your life directly, you've learned that sometimes Jane is a person seen most clearly out the corner of your eye. Being occupied with another activity, or at least the pretense of it - driving, cooking, exercising, tv - makes it easier for her to talk.

So tonight you will "watch something", even if it's one of those moronic comedies she likes, because it doesn't really matter. And she is well aware that you're aware of how this works.

She smiles and nods. Before you rise, you feel welcome to hold that warm gaze for longer than would've been appropriate 24 hours ago.

.

A normal day ensues. You share lunch as usual, dying to know what she's thinking but making sure to avoid bringing up anything personal, until you're sure that's the topic of the smirk you're watching her fight. Accepting you're not being listened to, you trail off.

"What?" you ask.

Her grin only intensifies.

"You know something I've been wanting to do for a while.." She nudges her drink in a circle for a moment, watching the condensation it leaves on the table. Already amused at whatever she's going to say. "Walk in your door and give you a big dumb 50's sitcom husband coming home from work kiss." She glances up at you only after completing the thought.

You match her grin.

Three hours later, you start obsessively checking the time. You put off two emails and speed through a yellow light to make sure you're there first. To make sure that when her key scrapes in your lock, you're already waiting two feet inside the front door with your lips pursed.

She startles and laughs (and even with your eyes closed you know it's the kind where her cheeks puff out with air) before she drops her keys on the table, wraps her arms very precisely around you, and presses her lips to yours.

How you can like a kiss so much and struggle to think of a single descriptor about it leaves you stumped. It's not quick, not long. Not hot, not delicate. Balanced exactly on the line between comfortable and thrilling. The kiss of a couple who's kissed a thousand times already. And at the end of it she slides her arms further around you and just holds you to her for a minute. It's a content, swaying hug in which you can find no other motive than that she likes you.

And although you have a lot to talk about, this leaves you feeling like it's going to be okay. And like you've had half a glass of wine.

 **.**

How many Beverly Hills Cop sequels there could possibly be? You make popcorn to sell how much you're really watching this one. And for an agonizing while, that actually is all you're doing - rather, you're staring at the screen pretending to be unaware that you're being stared at.

It's more bearable when you lean over and rest your head on her shoulder. Not only does it feel nice, but you can get away with closing your eyes and enjoying the way her cheek is resting on the top of your head. You should've done this thirty minutes ago.

"Maur?"

"Hm?"

"What do you do at work if you're not... prepared to do the experiment you know you have to do?"

"Gather more data."

"Right. Can't... can't be hasty about science."

"No," you smile into her shoulder, unseen. "Sometimes spending more time in the research phase will clarify things that make the experiment as you originally envisioned it unnecessary."

Silence is all you get in response to that.

Some man is shouting on the screen and you don't care why, but in case Jane does, you don't add anything more.

You like the smell of her laundry detergent.

"You have such little pinkies."

You lift your head and find her attention directed down at your hand in your lap.

"What? They're of average size," you object, holding up your hand.

She reaches up and grasps the digit in question, wiggling it gently.

"It's cute." She spreads her palm against yours, comparing your fingers. Hers are longer. You already know that.

"I've always thought you ha-" you receive a kiss on your temple, and look up questioningly at an emotional struggle going on on her face. "...beautiful hands."

Deciding against saying something, she folds her fingers lightly between yours and rests them all into her lap.

And it's back to quiet for a little while.

"We have to throw out this arrangement thing," she starts suddenly when she finds her voice. "You aren't just some... outlet for me. Or a placeholder. You haven't been for a long time. I want everything we say to be real."

A smile expands on your face. You feel like a genie freed from a bottle, but you can't decide whether you ought to say that.

"And the stuff we talk about... it isn't strictly fantasy. Not anymore. I think I'm starting to want things I... wouldn't know how to do."

"Because I'm a woman?"

"No. Kind of. I mean, if I was gay, fine, it's just that I never have been. I feel like this is the part where I should say I guess I was gay all along and didn't want to admit it, but.. I keep thinking back and looking for clues and honestly, I never liked a girl like that in my life."

"There are no rules," you shrug. "You don't have to revise your entire past to justify the way you feel right now."

"You made that easy," she looks away with an amused breath. "But it's not a gay thing. It's more that I'm not... ready. For a long time, I haven't even _wanted_ anybody to touch me, so it didn't matter whether I was.." she shrugs and swallows. "Terrified."

Your heart aches at that word, but you know she doesn't need you to repeat what you've already told her.

"The Jane Rizzoli I first met would've hated for me to even touch her hand," you recall, squeezing your fingers lightly between hers. "Think of how much you've already done that used to frighten you. You've already come a mile in baby steps. You're already halfway there."

She blinks at you.

" _If_ you want more... and _if_ you become ready for it. It will be my mission to please you in the exact ways you're afraid you can't be. To make you feel so good that you forget feeling any other way."

Longing and apprehension battle for halves of her face. You wonder if there is any combination of emotions that would render her features any less stunning. Probably not.

"I know," you assure her before she can speak. "I'll wait."

"I have no business asking you to wait," she shakes her head.

"You didn't. I offered."

"What if I made you wait and the answer turned out to be no?" she asks, more troubled. "What if it time goes on and on and I still didn't know?"

"Then I will have spent time with the person I most enjoy spending time with."

She drags a hand down her face.

"Would you quit being so accommodating and tell me what _you_ want, for once?"

" _You._ I want you and everything that comes with you." You smile, running a finger lightly over one worried brow, relaxing it. "Let's just give it time, Jane. I want to just.. be us. Be real, and just... see what comes naturally."

"I can do that."

She leans in and kisses you, breaking it only when the audio from the TV cuts off and you realize you're leaning on the fast-forward button.

"Oops, I lost our place," you feign regret.

"Ugh, I don't care, this one sucks. I was gonna ask if you wanted to make out for the rest of it."

"Oooooooops," you say, holding down the rewind button.


	22. Top or bottom

"Can I ask a question that's not particularly any of my business?"

You look over at her just before the light turns green.

"Sure," you reply.

"What's been going on with your sex life lately?"

"Not very much."

"Well.. right, you've been spending every night with me, so..."

"Right," you agree, waiting for more, but she adds nothing. You glance at her for just an instant, needing to watch the road. "So what's your question?"

"I just..." she shrugs. "Wondered how you were doing."

The question seems too broad to be the one she's really asking.

"Are you asking when is the last time I had sex?"

"No!" she insists, not fully convincing you. "That's not my business."

"Then what are you asking?"

"Just... I don't know? Okay, maybe I... was kind of asking that," she mumbles, "but as your _friend_ , who you used to tell about that stuff all the time. Somewhere along the line you just... stopped, and.. y'know, I know stuff's different lately, but I still care the way I used to.." She draws a fingertip on the window. "Did it get weird for me to ask?"

This is true. There was a time when you would volunteer such information to Jane, in fact more than once you were accused of oversharing. You thought nothing of it. She was your friend back then and nothing else. It seems impossible now.

You disappear into your own thoughts for a moment, opening files on all your past relationships. It occurs to you that you have never already loved someone as a true friend before you loved them as lover. Or.. whatever. You have never dealt with that shift before.

The driver ahead of you rolls down their window and tosses out a cigarette butt.

"Ugh," you frown.

"Alright, never mind, I was just curi-"

"What? _No!_ No, not you. This person's littering," you point.

"Litter?!" she cranes her neck. "These murders can wait. Put the sirens on."

She's kidding.

"Should we call Frost and Korsak for backup?"

"Nah, we got this. I have riot stuff in the trunk you can put on if you wanna cover me."

You smirk as you change lanes and pass the offending vehicle.

A successful joke, you note with internal glee. You love when you can manage joking like she does, without even acknowledging it. She'd think you were such a dork if she knew that.

"That lady was three hundred if she was a day," Jane reports, turning in her seat. "I gave her the stink eye for you."

"Considering the way nicotine impairs blood flow to the skin and accelerates aging, I wouldn't be surprised if she was much younger than she looked."

"Yeah, I was exaggerating. She was probably only like two hundred fifty."

You let a silent moment pass.

"You're right, I did stop telling you," you nod, watching the traffic lights change. "I guess it gradually became uncomfortable to mention. Then I stopped having anything _to_ mention."

"That's why I suggested we spend some nights apart, a while back. I wanted you to have opportunities to... do what you needed to do, without having to tell me."

"That was a thoughtful gesture."

If she had been demanding, as a lover, to know who you've been with and when, you might feel differently. But you believe her grounds for asking, and it's not that uncomfortable anymore now that your feelings are out in the open.

"You might be interested to know," you continue, "that I used a grand total of one of those nights for that purpose. Do you want to know how it went?"

"I did ask."

"It was awkward. I didn't enjoy it because I was thinking about you the whole time. I missed you and wished it was you. And I knew if I were to keep trying it would only get worse."

"Really?"

You glance over and her mouth is behaving oddly.

"Why are you trying not to smile?"

"I..." she raises and drops her hands in her lap, and you can hear the smile in her voice. "I have no right to feel how I feel about that."

"How?"

"Happy? I _wanted_ you to be able to do whatever would make you happy. But I just sat home sad thinking you might be with anybody else. It bummed me out thinking of somebody else making you laugh, or... falling asleep next to you and stuff."

"It made me sad, too, that's why it was the last time."

"So..." she's quiet for a beat. "So you've already been waiting for me for a while."

"Not in the sense that I _expected_ anything from you someday. It's more that I lost any desire for anyone else," you clarify just as her phone begins to ring.

It's Korsak telling Jane about the case.

After that you drive for a few minutes in silence.

"Was it a man or woman?"

"Man," you answer, amused.

"Hm."

You have to look over, because you know she'll be turning down the corners of her mouth to fight a smug grin again. Your smile at her breaks into a chuckle.

* * *

You want a better picture of what Jane used to be like sexually.

It'd be good for both of you to talk about, you think. Healthy for her to get back in touch with that part of herself. And.. illuminating, for you.

Both of you have shared your feelings, and are navigating a proto-relationship - that's what it is, even if you've agreed not to label it yet. But this would be the time for her to start being more open about her physical attraction to you.

There's kissing. Nice, sweet kissing. And chaste cuddling. And that's it.

And you're starting to wonder.

She reported fairly platonic objections to you being with someone else. It sounded like your company, rather than sex, that she was jealous about. And she hasn't shown any interest in seeing you naked, let alone touching you. You know she needs this all to be slow; it only seemed there would be... _something_ by now. _One_ thing that couldn't be explained some other way. It's not that you're getting impatient; you just find yourself thinking it would explain a lot if she wasn't sexually attracted to you after all.

So you want to go back to the times when she _was_ sexually attracted to people.

When you picture Jane having sex with a man, you can't decide whether you feel a twinge of jealousy, or a little odd arousal, or both. Why should you be jealous about long-defunct relationships? And why shouldn't it arouse you? Loving Jane doesn't mean you've lost your physical attraction to men. You're still bisexual, and it's a perk of your bisexuality, you suppose, to be able to enjoy the combination. That is, in what disjointed glimpses you can imagine.

It's not that you _can't_ picture a young Jane having good sex with a boyfriend. It's that you aren't quite sure how exactly to arrange your mental picture.

The publicly known, bold and brash and athletic Detective Rizzoli screams "top". You pair that with the confidence she says she used to possess, and your heart rate accelerates at easy images of wild hair and sweaty olive skin and strength and... oh. that's sexy.

The Jane you know and love in private shyly mumbles "missionary, bottom," but that image just doesn't want to form in your mind. _Your_ Jane? Your strong but anxious Jane, who you remember trembling just to let you lean over her for one carefully timed minute - beneath a man?

No. _Not_ that Jane - that's the whole point. She'd been a different one then. But even when you imagine a Jane who's comfortable with it, you still can't picture her laying back, opening herself to a man. It just doesn't seem to fit what you know about her personality.

Who was she to men?

"Oh, just spit it out already."

Her words snap you back to reality, in which you're still sitting in Jane's kitchen.

"What?" you pause in mid-chew.

Why should you spit it out? Have you been lost in thought and chewing this same bite for a really long time? Does she think you don't like her cooking? Confused, you bring your napkin up to your mouth.

"No-" Jane snorts. "No. Not your food. Your question."

"What question?"

"You've got your scientific inquisition face on, and it's been staring at me for all of dinner. I know there's a question, so, out with it."

Caught, you concede with a smile.

"It's a sexual question."

"Shoot."

"Did you used to like to be on the top or the bottom?"

She pauses, swaying her chicken-laden fork indecisively for a moment before putting it in her mouth.

"Either," she shrugs. "Depending on the time."

"Hm."

Even with that answer, you still don't see it.

"What does 'hm' mean?"

"Honestly? I can't picture..." almost too late, you realize all she'll hear is that you can only see her as fearful. You settle for a change in meaning in order to complete your sentence. "I can't imagine you being sexually submissive."

She smiles faintly.

"That's not what you were gonna say. You were gonna say you can't picture me on the bottom, after how you've seen me get."

Sometimes you think you might as well just blurt out all your subconscious thoughts.

"That isn't why-"

"It's fine. I get it. You have nothing else to build a case on."

"Yes I do," you insist. "In all other realms you like being in control. You _hate_ vulnerability. You're always power struggling with men. There's some vulnerability to being the receptive partner on the bottom and you just don't seem like you'd ever have enjoyed being that way for someone."

She studies you, looking amused.

"Believe it or not, I don't act exactly the same in private with someone I love, as I do with assholes at work..."

"Well. I.. I'm sure," you cheeks warming slightly. "I guess I've really only ever seen you interact with men in a professional setting, so I..."

"I know," she assures you, and you believe she's not bothered due to the way she's talking through an enormous mouthful of food. "But I don't like sex being a power thing."

"I think there'a always a power dynamic of some kind," you tilt your head thoughtfully.

"Well, I like it to be even, then. _I_ wouldn't wanna be power _less_ , but I don't want someone I love to be either. So," she makes a back-and-forth or circular motion with her fork, shrugging.

"I see."

You don't make much more progress on dinner before another subtopic takes root in your mind.

"Can I ask something else?"

"Yeah?"

"How did you feel about performing oral sex?"

"Uh," she takes her next bite back out of her mouth and pauses to almost laugh. "It's.. alright?"

"Not something you loved?"

"Like in and of itself?" she shrugs. "I never thought it was a chore or anything, but it's... definitely about loving the person, not loving the activity."

"Hm."

"What? Can't picture that either?"

"No, I... can..."

Just one of her eyebrows arches. Your heart rate accelerates again.

"Mmkay... what about you, do you like it?"

"Fellatio?"

She makes a face.

"No, _rollerblading_. Don't call it that."

"Don't call it rollerblading?" you ask innocently.

She lets her head fall back and sighs dramatically, and you release the laugh you've stifled.

"I was only trying to clarify whether you were inquiring in general or with men specifically, and that's what it's called."

"Oh. Well, either then, I guess."

"It can be enjoyable.. but like you said, the other person's enjoyment is the best part."

"Uh-huh." She leans forward with both elbows on the table. "So gimme the scoop. What's better, sex with men or women?"

"Apples and oranges."

"Cop out," Jane rolls her eyes.

"It is not! It's a perfectly valid answer for a bisexual. I don't know on what grounds one could objectively be called _better_ than the other. It involves a lot of factors, all of which depend on the individual."

"Fine, fine." You watch her form another tactic. "Who gives better, then?"

You shake your head thoughtfully.

"It's too individual. It's a function of personality, experience level, communica-"

"Just once can't you unfairly generalize anything, just for the sake of conversation?"

You sigh, crossing your arms.

"Women. In my experience."

"Thank you," she nods. "Was that so hard?"

"Yes. Overgeneralizing makes me itchy."

"Makes sense though, I guess, if you're trained on the same equipment."

"Preferences vary so much, I don't know if that really is that much of an advantage..."

A few quiet reflective moments pass.

"So how did you used to..." you lose heart before the question fully forms. You already know what the next five seconds hold: you'll ask something, she'll see through you and tell you to ask what your real question is. So you skip all that.

"Jane... you're romantically attracted to me. I see that clearly..."

"Did the making out give me away?"

You smile.

"Do you think that could be all?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean.. do you think you might be attracted to me romantically but not sexually?" you ask.

She tilts her head and squints, and you love that she's really giving it thought instead of just replying defensively.

"I never thought of totally separating them like that. But.. it's fair to say it's an emotional thing first and foremost? That doesn't mean I can't feel both ways..."

"No, it's just that I know you're still figuring things out, and... given your behavior, and the reservations you mentioned before... I wouldn't be that shocked if you found out that you're not as sexually attracted to a woman as you expected to be."

"Well... " She puts her fork down. "It's not like I flipped a switch and am woman-crazy suddenly. It's that I'm into _you_ , and..."

"...and you don't _mind_ that I'm a woman."

She shrugs her agreement.

"It's easy not to mind that I'm a woman when you aren't touching or talking about or seeing very much that reminds you I'm female."

On the tip of your tongue teeters Exhibit A, her apparent disinterest in seeing you naked, but you realize this might already sound too much like you're trying to pressure her.

"Please understand this isn't a complaint, Jane, or a diagnosis, I'm just thinking out loud. Just noticing that certain things don't seem to interest you, and I wanted to be sure you aren't trying to cultivate sexual feelings for me because you expect those to go along with romantic ones."

Cortisol is your penalty for failing to parse her facial expression. She doesn't seem offended, but you don't know what she does seem.

"Look, just because-" she stops short. Whatever was clouding her face seems to soften and fall away all at once, like maybe she was annoyed but then decided not to be. By the end, she looks quite near appreciative. "Who else would look out for me like that.."

That was probably rhetorical. You hope a vague smile is enough of a reply.

"Okay, look, though," she says, shifting back and forth in her seat, like she always does when she's about to explain something. "You've been into me physically from day one. You felt that, and only that, way back. Right?"

"I don't know about day _one_..."

" _I_ do, I saw how you looked at me," she smirks. "But that's not the point. Point is, that came first for you. And then the rest, the feelings and the smushy stuff grew in after that. Right?"

"Yes."

"Well, I think that's how this is working for me, too - just the other way around. You got to the feelings and stuff by way of the physical; I'm getting to the physical stuff by way of feelings. This time, anyway."

"Oh," you blink.

That was stupid. That should not have been a revelation to you.

Of course people experience attraction differently - you knew that. But you knew that because you've read about it, not because you've ever personally seen it in action and compared notes with someone and _understood_. You thought the difference was speed, when really, there's an entirely different order of operations as well.

"I'm sorry if it's frustrating," she adds more gently.

"I'm not frustrated," you promise, hoping you hadn't been silent too long. "I just wanted to understand. And I think I do."

Apparently satisfied, you watch her finish her plate. Your own stomach must have realized it was full while you were talking, and besides that, you're busy deciding whether you regret the entire last section of the conversation.

"Ever wondered how sex would feel if you were a guy?" she chews.

"Yes," you nod, grateful that she's smoothing things out.

"Bet it'd be better."

"Why?"

"Just does," she shrugs.

"You must have some reason to think that."

"Maybe it's the vulnerability thing. No matter what position or whatever, you wouldn't have to deal with that."

You stop yourself on the verge of pointing out that being the receptive partner is not synonymous with vulnerability or submission or the traditional gender roles you sense she's drawing on. Surely she knows that, but you can't blame her for being more sensitive to that feeling of vulnerability than you are.

An idea, already fully formed, drops into your mind. You've never used one, but products exist that would make it possible for Jane to experience an approximation of what she's describing.

You've never wanted that with a woman before, in fact it would be odd to try to picture it with other women you've known. But with Jane you can picture it perfectly.

"Uh. Why did your eyes just bug out like a cartoon?"

You need to stop picturing it. You're getting way ahead of yourself.

"No relevant reason," you blurt, and rise and grab both of your dishes more abruptly than you meant to.

Thankfully she lets this go with a suspicious look, and joins you in cleaning up the kitchen.

At the sink, she says something you're sorry you missed because it was quiet and the faucet was running.

"What?"

"I don't hate vulnerability," she repeats.

"Oh."

"I'm just really choosy about who gets to see it. A little vulnerability's part of what makes it feel good for somebody to be good to you."

You come right up beside her, but it still takes you a moment to get up the courage to say it, to make sure you aren't being too presumptuous.

"I'll be good to you, Jane. Very -"

She watches with increasing amusement as you try to deliver the forehead kiss which you meant to accompany that promise. You can't quite reach even on the highest rise of your tiptoes because she still has her boots on.

She bends a little at the knees to bring it into your reach.

"... very good."

"I know," she smiles, and kisses your lips.


	23. Constance (tw?)

**I don't know if this is a tw, but heads up for some sad parental /adoption angst?**

* * *

Her forearm over the dip of your waist, your head at her shoulder, her lips somewhere around your forehead. It's been one of your standard sleeping positions for a long time, possibly the most common one. It's familiar and comfortable.

The new part is feeling fingertips meander under the bottom of your pajama top. Feeling her hand spreading flat against the skin at the small of your back.

Your eyes open in the dark.

Stay calm.

As if controlled by your sheer will power, that hand slides slowly, bunching your shirt as it rises.

In the past, with any other partner, you would've considered this absolutely nothing. Now, it's monumental.

"Maur?"

"Yeah?" you answer almost too quickly.

"Would it be alright if -"

"Yes."

You hear her smile.

"... I take your shirt off?"

"Of course," you sit up, fumbling immediately with your buttons, seriously considering just tearing them.

"I only.."

"I know," you save her from making the disclaimer.

"C'mon back," she finds your hand and invites you with a small tug back into the same embrace as before.

You settle against her, the sheets cool around your shoulders, and her arm warm in the dip of your waist, and your bare breasts against her t-shirt. And for a minute, she holds you loosely like she's taking no notice of anything being different. Like she's just going to fall asleep like always. And do you know what? - she might. It'd be such a Jane thing to do. You smile to yourself in the dark.

That palm spreads on the small of your back again. You think you feel a concealed exhale.

Her hand wanders, and a shiver runs through you at the feeling of her touch on your bare skin. It's very unlikely she's going to do anything more, but this is the closest she's ever come.

In only moments you see that this is not a hungry grope, nor a thorough mapping of new territory. She's just holding you and stroking idly, affectionately up and down your back, just the way she's done on many nights before falling asleep.

One long smooth glide upward with the whole palm, then up the back of your neck and threading the fingers a little ways into the hair at your nape (that's your favorite part of the circuit) before following your spine back down to your sacrum.

You blink in the dark, taking stock of how you feel.

What you were expecting was to get aroused and then patiently endure this. And you _could_ easily get worked up. You could be frank with her about your needs; she has never objected to you gratifying yourself, and might even follow suit. You've done that together before.

But maybe you also feel peaceful. Maybe it's lovely that someone _wants_ to touch your skin and that's it. It prickles at the backs of your eyes in an unexpected way. And that's the feeling you're going with.

"That feels nice," you whisper.

"You feel nice." She nuzzles her nose in your hair.

People have complimented you on your skin before. You're always glad to divulge beauty tips.

"Just a simple skincare regim.." you trail off when you feel her shaking her head.

"You. Feel nice."

Have you ever been told that? Of course you have.

It's been groaned into your ear that "you feel so fucking good" one too many times to associate it to any individual person. But... no, that isn't quite what that means.

Somebody _must_ have told you that _you_. feel. nice. But you can't remember when.

Her fingers are still tracing the ridge of your scapula when you drift to sleep.

* * *

Jane doesn't like your mother. You see it in the arch of her brow within the first thirty seconds they're in the same room.

No, maybe you saw it before they even met. Earlier, when the news of her early arrival sent you halfway into panic.

Of course she wouldn't understand, not because she doesn't care, but because she can't identify with your stress. You have seen this woman decline to remove a dirty sock wedged in her couch cushions when her own mother was visiting.

Like always, your first impressions at seeing Mother are happiness, stress, and guilt.

You're happy to see her, and then she steps close to kiss your cheek and you catch the whiff of her perfume that always sends your cortisol levels skyrocketing, and then you feel guilty about having a Pavlovian stress response to your own mother who has done nothing more than greet you.

Upon their meeting, you think that maybe Jane sees why you've been stressed.

The Rizzolis are the only thing preventing this visit from unfolding like a mutual interview as usual. Both on their best behavior, Jane and Angela do their best to engage with your mother, but only the polite basics are ever asked of them. You're aware they're getting the impression that she's a snob, when that really isn't it. She doesn't consider herself superior to anyone; she's just much more interested in her own activities than in new people.

She has a full schedule of gallery openings and talks and trips to tell you about, as always.

The you who are Mother's shares your most recent cases and accomplishments.

The you who are Jane's wants to ask if she knows that there's no formal accomplishment that feels like being kissed on the head by someone you love when they think you're asleep.

You were a fool to waste any time planning how you'd explain what's going on with you and Jane, if that topic were to arise. As if Mother would ask any questions about your personal life that were truly meant to be answered.

It seems that she takes every opportunity to remind you, without even realizing it, that you are not her priority. It's truly not malice, or even coldness really. It's only that she's very independent and very busy.

This is not the first time it's hurt. But maybe it didn't used to hurt quite so much before you knew what it felt like to be someone's priority.

Maybe it didn't hurt so much when it wasn't happening in front of Jane and Angela. Maybe it used to just be painful, instead of painful and embarrassing.

You prepared for days and she doesn't stay for dessert.

The first thing you want to do after she leaves is explain that your mother _does_ love you, it's just not a kind of love they would recognize.

Rizzoli love is a loud, messy, unmistakable, inescapable love.

Isles love is... refined. So refined that the untrained eye must search for it. Even your own eye may be in need of some more training. But it is there. Sometimes you just have to know so.

Jane doesn't see it. What she does see is exactly how hard you're working to maintain your composure in front of the lingering hint of that perfume.

She tries to cheer you up by insisting that a loving mother is a nuisance. It doesn't work, but you love her for trying.

You're glad that work interrupts soon after dinner. Maybe you'll be so tired by bedtime that sleep will come easily.

.

"That's where you got your darling."

"What?"

A pajama-clad Jane grabs the decorative pillows from your bed and tosses them onto the chair - a task she usually bemoans, but you got home at 11 and she's too sleepy.

"She calls you that."

"Oh." You sit on the edge of your bed and take a pump of lotion from the nightstand. "Yeah.. ever since I was small."

This means Jane remembers that you've called her that a few times. You never _chose_ to call her any pet name, or for it to be that one specifically. It was just what came out at moments when you felt especially close, especially enamored. She never acknowledged it. You thought maybe she'd missed it, or not considered it significant.

It's funny, you can think of Mother calling you 'darling' much more clearly than you can think of her calling you your name. It is not reserved for special occasions.

Still in thought, you approach the open bathroom doorway where Jane is now washing her face.

"Jane?" you put your hand on the doorframe.

"Huh?"

"Is it the same?" you ask. "Do I sound like her?"

She meets your eyes in the mirror, then half smiles, then shakes her head.

"It's a different word in your mouth," she replies, disappearing into the splashing water for an instant. "Both like gold, I was thinking. But in totally different ways."

"Gold?"

"Yeah."

You don't know whether you're following this.

"Hers is gold like something real expensive, real pretty in a museum. If you touched it it'd be cold from the air conditioning and after you stepped away somebody would come and polish where you touched it." She pats her face in a towel and, finished, shuffles drowsily past you.

"Yours is gold... like when the sun comes out in January and you didn't realize you were shivering until you feel yourself stop. And..." she demonstrates a relaxed sigh, then pulls back the covers and gets in bed.

Never in your life would you have put together those analogies. Her reading of your mother stings a little in its accuracy, but that's far outweighed by your pleasant surprise at her reading of you. It isn't a feeling you would've thought yourself capable of instilling in anyone, especially not with that same word you've inherited. You'd like to write that down or put it in a scrapbook or something.

You wonder how long you've been standing across the room when she pats the space in bed next to her.

Unlike the last four nights, you go to bed fully clothed. Even though you looked forward to the next increment of the progress Jane's been making, tonight isn't like that, and she knows it.

You close your eyes tightly next to her, hoping to trick yourself into falling asleep.

 **.**

It hurts. It hurts any time you think about it, but if you keep busy and stay mindful of yourself, you don't think about it. It's hard to be very busy in the middle of the night.

It's like having a room in your house where you're beaten black and blue whenever you enter, and you cannot get rid of it, so you just choose not to go in there. Not very often.

Once in a great while, if you're in a certain mood and you've taken off your mascara, you have a glass of wine and go in there voluntarily.

Sometimes you just... find yourself in there. Like you've been sleepwalking. This is one of those.

In your dark kitchen you sit down on a stool and pour yourself a glass of red wine. Just one. Maybe two. You never try to drink pain away - that would be irresponsible. A little just helps to blend out its sharp edges, so you can face this beating.

It's been a couple of years since the last one. Maybe you're due anyway.

You open your library of thoughts like a kit of surgical tools. From experience you know which are the sharpest and most evocative; your favorite painful ones to run through your mind. Like when you press on a bruise and you kind of like it.

You prefer your pity parties to at least be efficient ones. The harder you can cry, the more pain you can vent per session and the fewer sessions you have to have.

This isn't a dignified grownup woman cry. This is the ugly, hiccuping silent sobbing of a child. Like maybe it's a cry your nine-year-old self meant to have right before someone told you to sit up straight, and it got deferred until now.

Even though you've seen a (1) picture of it, you can barely picture Mother holding you as a baby. You have no proof that Father ever did.

You wonder if your biological mom even held you once first, before she gave you away **.**

That's the very first thing that happened to you, you know. You were born, and then the first order of business was to discard you. That was your welcome to the world, and you may never get over it.

You can disguise yourself as a successful adult with a career and degrees and wealth all you want, but alone in the dark at 3AM you are the same lost, unwanted little girl you always were.

A hand gently touches your back and starts to move up and down. Automatically you downgrade your crying.

She hugs you with one arm and her chin.

Even though you were careful not to disturb Jane's sleep, she still must have sensed you missing. She hasn't said anything yet, and after several seconds pass, you realize with relief that she doesn't intend to. You can't decide whether you feel more inconvenienced or grateful that she's interrupted your cry.

You mean to ask her a question. Maybe something about how it feels to have a mom who.. something.

Hasty synapses deliver this idea before you have finalized it; you look up at her and all that comes out of your mouth is a very small "Mom?"

Oh, damn. Your eyes snap shut. _Idiot._

You didn't mean it like that. That was ten times as pathetic as you meant to be in front of her. But it's too late to fix it.

You wonder if feelings can impact electrical currents or air pressure or something, because you can _feel_ Jane reacting, strongly, but without knowing what in the world to say to what you just said.

It's okay. You wouldn't know either.

She says nothing and hugs you almost too hard. From the sound of her breathing, she might be crying slightly or very close to it.

Lacking the strength to say you don't want her pity gives you enough time to realize that this doesn't feel like pity. It just feels like somebody loves you enough to hurt for you.

She threads her fingers through your hair and holds your head to her shoulder and kisses the top of it, and rocks you gently on your stool, and does not shush you, and murmurs gentle nothings with your name in them.

Maybe this is the way if would've felt to be held by your mom or dad, if they had loved you.

Now you're crying again - first because it hurts, but then simply because you can. Because you can't remember ever full-on sobbing in someone's arms, not even as a child. You always needed to mind your etiquette, needed convey poise and professionalism, needed to be attractive. You needed...

You _needed_ someone who doesn't give a damn about any of that. Someone who knows when you need cheering up and when you need to wallow. Someone who doesn't care if your nose might be running a little on their shirt.

And now, you have that.

And as soon as you've enjoyed the realization, you're done.

At the end of your cry you're always sure you're blowing this out of proportion. It's time to stop wallowing.

You didn't grow up in an abusive home, or on the street, or in foster care; not wasting away in some third-world orphanage. You had parents. They did love you. You were extremely privileged. They gave you everything a kid could want. Every.. _thing_.

And you shouldn't be judgmental of your biological mother. She must have had her reasons.

And you shouldn't be longing for a mother when you have one.

And you shouldn't light up when Angela Rizzoli makes you bunny-shaped pancakes.

Maybe this did not used to hurt quite this much before you knew Angela Rizzoli. That's the thing - _do_ you even know her that well? And yet she treats you more like a daughter than anyone ever has.

Jane doesn't give you a speech about how Mother _surely_ loves you, or how your birth mom _would_ love you if she knew you, or how _she_ loves you herself. She knows she can't provide what you're missing, and you could never articulate how much you appreciate her sparing you the attempt.

She just holds you until your tear tracks dry itchy on your cheeks and you feel warm and tired and cared for and ready to sleep. Like a heavy-lidded toddler ready to be carried in from the car.

You follow her up the stairs, eyes closed, led by the hand.

She already knows you want to sleep with your head on her chest.

Rarely are you as confident that you know what she's thinking as you lay and listen to her heartbeat. You can feel her debating whether to tell you "I love you", or if it will sound too much like " _I_ love you".

With the way she holds you and squeezes you, she doesn't need the words.

Jane can't fix all your problems. But she does give you the gift of falling asleep feeling loved and wanted. And you don't think you'd ever be able to explain how that feels.

.

The first sight of yourself in the mirror makes you suck in a disapproving breath. A hard cry and too little sleep have left you with a particularly bad case of morning face. You even have marks imprinted on your cheek from the ribbing on Jane's shirt.

As you finish splashing cold water on your face, you notice her leaning in the bathroom doorway. A reason eludes you.

"Are you waiting to shower?"

"Nuh-uh."

She comes in and lifts your chin with her fingers, looking at you much more closely than you wish she would at the moment. Smiling in some certain small way.

"What?"

"You're really beautiful, you know?"

You blink in disbelief.

She has told you that before, usually in passing, in a yes-your-dress-looks-fine way. But of all moments to be the first time she tells you really directly..?

"Are you kidding? I'm a mess," you disagree, smoothing your hair self-consciously.

"No," she reaches up and scrabbles her fingers through your hair, messing it up to an extent that she wouldn't dare if you weren't about to wash it. " _This_ is a mess." Her smile broadens. "And I like it."

Still dumbfounded, you barely move to receive a peck on the lips before she turns to leave.

"Do we have any English muffins left? The- actually, that's still not really a mess," she tilts her head, appraising you once more before disappearing around the corner. "I'm not sure you can _be_ a full mess."

Alone in the bathroom, you exchange a confused look with your mess of a reflection.

* * *

Mother's art installation is tonight. You want Jane to come and see your name at the top of the guest list as proof that you _are_ important to her after all.

Humiliation feels like a wool turtleneck in August. You are nowhere on the guest list at all.

Jane does not like your mother's art _or_ your mother.

The first thing she does is tell her about the list. She's no longer slightly intimidated and on her best behavior. She's confrontational, and that means she's pissed off.

"Maura, would you mind getting us something to drink? I'd love to get to know your mother better."

You go blank.

Your mother is someone she would make furious eyes at you for leaving her alone with. She could only be politely getting rid of you.

There is no subject they have in common, none they could possibly have to discuss, except you. Only you find no daggers to shoot at Jane because you have never armed her with anything you'd fear being repeated. You've never spoken ill of Mother in front of her.

All three of you know she doesn't want a drink, but you still have to cooperate.

You don't know why you feel uncomfortable leaving them unattended together, for which of them you feel responsible. You don't want your mother scolded. And for what? The guest list? It was a simple oversight for which she has already apologized. Having Jane gripe about that on your behalf would be embarrassing.

Or maybe that isn't it. She may be brash and direct, but one can't become that good a detective by being tactless.

Half of you wants to catch her eye like _please shut up_ and the other is looking at her like your knight in shining armor.

Lip reading is less intuitive than you hoped.

Someone strikes up a conversation with you, forcing you to tear your eyes from them. It's for the best. You would've ended up watching them from a potted plant.

* * *

That face belongs inside the Dirty Robber so little that it actually takes you a second to recognize it as your mother's.

You think of the sound your printer makes when it jams.

Jane is eating peanuts a little too nonchalantly, and you have the distinct impression that she somehow engineered this.

Your mother joins you and Jane and Angela in your usual booth. It's a little awkward while you wonder where your loyalties lie.

You keep explaining when Jane is telling a joke. Serving as her interpreter makes you feel like you're just realizing you've learned another language. In the beginning, you had just as much trouble knowing when Jane was kidding.

Maybe you used to be just like her, and you changed. Maybe that means she can change a little.

Is it uncomfortable to have Angela here? You feel slightly odd as if your mother has caught you cheating on her.

But a few minutes in, you realize that maybe, even though you are the common denominator, none of these people are your responsibility and you don't have to manage any of them.

You can just sit back and watch them interact. Like combining three of the most random chemical compounds you can think of under a ventilation hood and just seeing what happens.

And once you do that, it becomes... f.. fun?

You watch Mother drink a milkshake and talk about things besides her travel itinerary and behave remarkably like what Jane might call "an actual person".

You watch Jane talking to your mother on her own terms and on her own turf, not toning herself down (up, if anything). Maybe even messing with her a little, playfully.

You watch Angela feel welcome enough to talk to her about family things, ask mom questions, and actually get a response. You learn more about your mother than you have in the past twenty years.

And by the end of the evening, you think you even see Jane and Angela seeing her loving you.

You have a conversation across the table with just your eyes:

 _How did you do this?_

She smirks like _do what?,_ pretending to look away.

 _Thank you_ , you smile _._

 _Love you,_ she winks.


	24. Good morning (x)

**Ok.. I think this will be more popular.. sexy chapter alert.**

* * *

You wouldn't have chosen for the first time Jane saw your breasts to be when you were asleep on your side. It's not any breast's most flattering angle, in your opinion.

She's laying on her side next to you, just staring.

It's very early in the morning; Jane's bedroom is only a shade lighter than the darkest it gets. She isn't getting anything more than a vague look, even with the closest possible view.

Is she looking fondly? Could you say that? Not really. Besides the fact that you can barely see it, her expression seems too neutral to read anything into.

Something tells you to close your eyes, and you obey.

"Faker," she whispers, voice broken with sleep. Your mouth curves into a smile.

"M'not," you object. "I'm within my rights to close my eyes in bed."

Your eyes reopen when you feel a tickle and realize she's lazily tracing your clavicle. All the way across and back, end to end. And you realize maybe you didn't just happen to wake up for no reason.

You're about to close your eyes again to focus on the sensation when it's exchanged for another.

She touches your breast. The top, flat with her fingers, then just as quickly she tucks her palm right up underneath instead, and just leaves it there, flat against your ribs. It's an odd approach to touching your breasts, you think, but your heartbeat is speeding up nonetheless, and she must be able to feel it.

And then it dawns on you that feeling your heartbeat is exactly what she's doing.

For about the hundredth time, you have the same mental debate about how you're supposed to react to Jane doing something that's just on the verge of arousing you, but that maybe you should just consider kind of sweet instead. It's just another little baby step.

No, wait, two baby steps - her thumb begins grazing at the swell of your breast. You smile into your pillow. There's very little you could do to keep from getting aroused now, and you don't see why you should try.

"Well, good morning," you sigh.

As much as you'd love to touch her, you decide she'd probably like for you to keep your hands to yourself for now and let her do what she wants, which at the moment is to fondle your breasts and pepper your face with small kisses.

Her touch is slow, part sleepiness and part reverence. She's sliding your nipples gently in the spaces between her fingers, circling them endlessly like she's never felt anything like it.

It's when she cups your entire breast that you realize if you concentrate, you can feel her scars. That's the little jolt of reality that makes moisture pool between your legs, or maybe just makes you realize that it already has.

"Jane?"

"Hmm."

You suppose you're allowed to be frank now. As long as you can think of an appealing way of hinting that-

"I'm very aroused." Or, that. "Would you mind if I took care of it while you're doing that?"

"You don't have to ask me." You can hear the smile in her voice. "Actually I was just about to ask you if I could."

"Of course." You've done that together lots of times; maybe it's silly that you've both reverted to asking permission, but your relationship has changed and maybe so have the rules.

"Hmm, good." She kisses you, slowly and deeply. Her hair falls over your face and you don't care. "You know I love hearing you."

"You do?" you hum, sleepy and happy and wet.

"Mm-hmm," she answers into your lips. "I 'member the first time you let me hear you... and that was it for me."

"That's what did it?" you ask, not because you don't already know this, but because you like the thought.

"Mm-hmm. You said my name. Prettiest.. sexiest thing I ever heard..." she says, her lips dragging to your jawline and following it to your ear. "I'd like to hear it again."

"You're about to," you assure her, slipping a hand beneath the covers.

The touch at the top of your waistline arrives a confusing fraction of a second too soon, and a jolt goes through you when you realize it isn't your own.

"What are you doing?" slips out of your mouth before you can think, like you're startled on her behalf, and you curse yourself when that sensation vanishes immediately.

"I'm sorry? I thought you said yes."

"You- you meant you? - _me_?"

"Yeah?"

Is this real?

"What happened to...? I thought you were nowhere near.. ?"

"For _me_ , no..."

You lay there stunned. It never occurred to you to separate her readiness to give and to receive.

"I.."

You were going to ask whether this is because some recent conversation made her feel challenged to prove herself. But you've said everything you needed to say, many times, and you're on the verge of a moment you've been dreaming about for way too long to delay with another conversation.

You might actually be dreaming anyway.

"Hush," she smiles, stilling your lips with her own, then pulls back to add seriously, "unless you don't want-"

"I want," you plead, not even completely certain what she has in mind, but it doesn't matter. "I want."

You return her slow kisses and let her hand roam around in your pajamas, getting acquainted with a region of you she's never really touched before even though clothes. She's in no hurry. You try very hard not to be, either. As eager as you are for whatever is happening, you have a renewed willingness to wait just a little longer.

She cups you and you feel her lips against yours curl into a smile. You aren't sure whether she can feel your condition through your underwear, or if she just likes that she's touching you so intimately.

"Take them off," you breathe between kisses, trying your best to make it sound like a request and not an order. If this was only meant to be a baby step, she knows by now that she can say no.

She doesn't say no.

Maybe because the room is still so dark, she doesn't try to look at what she's uncovering. But you do feel her fingertips trail deliberately down your legs as she slides the rest of your clothing off at once under the sheets.

And you are completely bare, completely hers to do absolutely anything with.

She settles somewhere between above you and at your side.

Before you can kiss again, an unexpected laugh bubbles up from your chest, made of surprise and anticipation and too many trace emotions to name. You think you're going to have to explain yourself, until her throaty chuckle joins the sound of yours and you feel wonderfully understood.

This is the moment you understand that whatever else you are, whatever else you might become, you will never not be best friends. In a minute you're going to be moaning for your lover, but right now you're laughing with the best friend you've ever had, for reasons neither of you could articulate, and you love it.

You're still laughing when she kisses you. The only thing that makes you stop is when she touches you.

At the feel of you, she pauses her kiss to exhale a warm "wow" against your jaw. You breathe a small moan in reply.

Wow is right. Only a matter of minutes ago you were asleep, and now you're as ready as you've ever been.

Her fingertips draw gently up and down your length while she kisses you. She isn't trying to tease you, nor please you yet, either. She's just seeing what you're like. Playing in your arousal. Painting you with it. You try not to move against her too much yet, wanting her to go at her own pace.

Your heartbeat sounds like the bass from a house party next door.

You're forgetting to kiss back.

"What do you like?" she murmurs.

"I... anything you.." you breathe unhelpfully, your legs opening wider of their own accord. Her nuzzling under your ear, and the warmth and vibration of her voice are making it very hard to think clearly. You grasp at the back of her head.

"Mm-mm," she disagrees. "This is for you. What do you like?"

She's really asking, and you do know what you want, but you're too slow to find the words for it.

Her voice makes you think of a drizzle of pure honey, coiling and coiling and melting smoothly into itself and oh please you are so wet.

"This?" her indicative graze makes you shudder. "Inside?"

 _That's_ the word. You echo it quickly, nodding, surprised again at her willingness. No word has ever sounded better to you.

You've always taken good care of each others' little words, and immediately you can hear that she knows you like that one.

"You want to feel me inside you?" her lips still so close to yours that they brush when she speaks, then asks the final note into the next kiss, "Hm?"

Her voice alone might kill you; this is easily the softest version you've heard of it yet. Barely a murmur, so close and gentle and genuine and only for you.

"Please. Pleaseyes."

You know she's smiled when she makes the sound in her throat that goes along with it.

"Okay."

And with that, you know she means to excite you, but not to toy with you. Later, when your brain is working at full capacity again, you might tell her how much you appreciate that.

You hold your breath; she's almost where you ache for her.

"Tell me when you're re-"

"Now."

She laughs, soft and husky, and kisses your neck, and...

How long have you wondered what it would feel like to be full of her? And now you know.

Your mouth opens and she captures just your bottom lip between hers, and you feel the vibration of a small moan of approval.

This has to be a dream. It's too sudden, too surreal; the room is cobalt blue and Jane is in. side. you. and you can barely move. Sleepiness and disbelief and pleasure have you immobilized, like you'd risk ending this with the slightest sound or movement. All you can do is lay there stunned, grasping feebly at her shoulders while you try to get your brain to quit trying to decide whether this is real and just enjoy it either way.

Just breathe. Just feel her kissing your neck and moving gently inside you.

Between deeper kisses are those little affectionate ones - the ones that so recently had you questioning whether she could be sexually attracted to you. If you weren't so preoccupied, you'd laugh.

And between those, she's whispering to you with that voice, and you don't know how but she's saying just the right sorts of things. It's when she calls you a name you never thought you'd hear her say, that you're _sure_ this is a dream.

You are so ripe and her fingers are so long and she is so.. so..

"Jane," you breathe, rolling against her. "Jane."

She's touching something in you beyond your anatomy, and it feels so good that your eyes are tearing up. The next time she looks down at you in the dim morning light, you know she thinks you're crying. You're not, but that's okay.

When you're close, you show her what you need and she adopts it immediately.

She tells you she loves you, and when you hear yourself say it back, you're no longer 100% sure that what your eyes are doing isn't called crying.

In her arms, in her bed, in her dreamy blue bedroom, safe from reality in this little crack between times and spaces, she fills you and fills you until you overflow.

Even then, you beg her not to stop, and she doesn't stop; not even when you go on and on, and not even after that, when you would still be begging if only you had the strength.

You feel too good even to lift your lids.

"G'morning," she grins, brushing the tip of your nose with her own, fingertips still playing softly in your warmth.

You do not know how to cope.

.

When you do manage to open your eyes, you identify Jane's bedroom, bright and solid and real.

Then you identify the sensation behind your head as fingers stroking lightly at your hair.

Already awake, she's waiting to share a smile with you. You don't get the impression that she's been asleep for some time. That's your first clue.

The second is shifting and realizing that you're nude between the sheets.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"I thought I dreamed it," you close your eyes and stretch, deliriously happy to have been wrong.

She watches you like there's nothing else in the world.

"I've had more than an hour to come up with what to say to you when you woke up and I still haven't thought of anything good enough," she confesses with a sideways smile.

Knowing what people are thinking may not be your strong suit, but this is what she'd call a no-brainer. There's nothing on her face you could possibly misinterpret as doubt or regret. She loves you.

You shake your head, meaning words could hardly matter less at the moment; you certainly can't find any either.

"I'm sorry I fell asleep," you realize. Not that she would've been open to reciprocation, but that still wasn't very considerate of you. You just felt so wonderfully relaxed...

She shakes her head, and you can see that it really doesn't matter to her.

Leaning closer, she presses a small kiss just above your eyebrow. It melts what little was left of you.

It's too much. It was so indescribably lovely and she's so beautiful and you love her and you _like_ her so much and she's your favorite thing in the whole world and you're so happy she's yours.

When you try to tell her that, all you actually do is reach out and touch one of her dimples, giggle "You're my Jane," and then turn your face down into your pillow and laugh again at your own behavior.

You are high as a kite.

"Yes I am," she props her head on her hand, thoroughly entertained, with a megawatt smile all for you. You don't think you've ever seen one quite like it. It's positively gorgeous.

Her smile widens yours, which makes her laugh, which makes you laugh, and you're stuck in a feedback loop you never want to get out of.

You just gaze at each other for a little while.

"You really surprised me," you admit, sure your face is making it clear the surprise was a pleasant one.

"By being not entirely awful?"

"I never thought you'd be awful. I just didn't think you'd get ready all at once, all of a sudden."

"Wasn't sudden," she smiles. "Just kept my progress on the down low."

"Why?" you puzzle.

"Didn't want to start anything I wasn't ready to finish."

"I wouldn't have minded finishing things you started."

" _I_ would've. I half-ass a lot of things but I don't intend for you to be one of 'em," she smirks, but you can tell it's important to her. "Making you feel good is something I wanna be really good at."

"You are," you assure her, thinking back on your morning.

You always expected to coach her through the first time. She couldn't be mistaken for someone with a lot of experience, but her instincts had been good enough that you can't recall offering any more constructive feedback than her name. Room for improvement, sure, but a very good start.

Logically, you know that your pleasure probably had more to do with her identity than her technique, not that she was trying to 'wow' you anyway. She was careful with you, but not timid or clueless. The whole thing was sweet and simple and sincere, like that first night you kissed.

Already you wish your memory of it was clearer; it's one you'll always cherish.

"Did you call me 'baby'?" you ask delightedly, playing with her fingers.

"I did," she pulls up one side of her lip, like she's not sure she's happy about it. "Which is weird 'cause I don't usually say that."

You find more than one memory of yourself saying irritably, _I am not an infant_.

"I liked it. Which is weird because I've always hated being called that," you admit. "It was a different word in your mouth."

She smiles, but when she parts her lips to speak, you touch a fingertip to them.

Maybe it wouldn't even be the right word if she said it right now, in broad daylight. You like the idea of a name you can be called only in that voice, only at the most special moments.

"I want you to call me that, but only when we're making love."

"Well... I hope I'm gonna be calling you that again pretty soon."

"Oh," you laugh. "I hope so too."

"Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but we gotta get up."

You groan softly. The only body you're in the mood for is this warm and alive one.

"This is the most I've ever been tempted to take a sick day without being sick."

"Do it."

"Can't, it's dishonest, and I'd love to spend a day in bed, but not because antihistamines make me drowsy," you smirk.

"Well hey, at least it's Friday, and murder's illegal on weekends," she sits up reluctantly and grabs her phone off the nightstand.

You watch her, reaching over and scratching at the back of her shirt affectionately. The way she smiles to herself about this is cute. The way her eyes move while she reads her messages is cute. The way she breathes is cute.

Focusing on work is going to be hard today.

"Hey, I wanted you to sleep in, but it's pretty late," she pats at your leg through the sheets, and when you bother to look at the clock you realize it's much later than you thought. As usual at her apartment, you'll shower first while she makes something to eat.

"Hey?" she gets your attention again just when you're turning to get out of bed, and when you turn back, she places a very soft kiss on your lips. "I love you."

"I love you too," you grin, and return as good a kiss as will still allow you to make it to work on time.

You slip out of bed and head for the shower, glancing back to confirm she's watching you go. You throw a smile over your shoulder.

* * *

 **Maybe won't be this detailed with every romantic scene but Maura has been patient and so have you :)**


	25. After work (x)

**Ok, a number of you asked for more detail. I have no problem with that since this story is about their intimacy & sexual relationship and I meant for there to be heat, as long as it's meaningful heat. I hope I do ok in finding a sexy-tasteful balance.**

* * *

"Alibi's solid," Frost declares.

Jane makes a sulking noise and drops her head back.

You double-take. This is far from the first time she's done this in front of you, but somehow at this moment, her throat is the most tantalizing thing you've ever seen. Your eyes feast on her jawline, her thyroid and cricoid cartilage and jugular notch and the beautiful color of her skin. You want to trace a line all the way from her chin dimple to the bottom of her V-neck.

Knowing she doesn't like her throat touched is the only thing that keeps you from rushing closer and pressing your lips against it. Is that what's giving you such a desire for it - knowing you can't?

Oh, is that something you'd love to see from above her one day. If she might tilt her head back in pleasure and expose that beautif-

"Is it, Doc?"

"I'm sorry?" you snap out of it, cheeks warming. Everyone's looking at you. You might have just licked your lips.

"Is that amount of cyanide lethal?" Frost repeats, jutting his chin at the report that you forgot was in your hands.

"Oh. N-no. Not nearly," you hope you recover quickly, glancing at the numbers. "In fact, you could expect higher concentrations as a result of ingesting the cyanogenic glycosides found in a few servings' worth of almonds, apple seeds or fruit pits, which would still be harmless."

"Who's eating fruit pits," Jane frowns, grabbing her phone from her desk.

Yours buzzes in your pocket.

It's a text from her.

{ Keep it together for a couple more hours :)

You look up and she finds a private enough moment in the midst of Frost and Korsak's discussion to shoot you a look. Both of you share a faint smirk at the knowledge of what you're going to do when you get home.

 _Every_ phase of your relationship with Jane has been genuinely enjoyable, but you're really, really enjoying this phase.

Because you've waited unusually long, and because of the newness of it, you can barely get enough of her. You promised this is temporary and you really have a very average libido. She just laughed. She has yet to turn you away.

Fortunately for you, she's approached this step the same way as all the others: after taking a long time to dip a toe in the water, she's cannonballed in.

You have never known Jane to be so eager a student.

What little instruction you give, she takes well. She's very attentive to your body language; quick to build on what you like, and abandon what you don't. She learns when you like your anticipation to be drawn out just a little, but never teases you, and never denies or delays when you ask for something. You have not had to request anything twice.

The best quality, though, is simple and one that could never be taught: her touch always makes you feel loved. You've had some very talented lovers in your life, but none who could boast of that one.

The end of the workday can't come soon enough, because you have something you want to investigate much more than stomach contents. It's a pattern you've noticed.

With goodnight and morning sex she's quite soft and sweet with you; after work sex is a bit hotter and bolder. Maybe it involves the time of day, or her mindset, energy or hormone levels, even her attire. You could simply ask, but it sounds much more fun to run some experiments and try to figure it out yourself.

The end of the workday can't come soon enough.

You walk sideways and backwards kissing though your entryway and are already taking your blouse off as you start up the stairs.

In your bedroom she reaches for her belt.

"Leave it," you request, eyeing her badge and gun.

This is the variable you wanted to test today. You think it might subconsciously give her confidence. (Also.. you like it.)

She arches a brow. It's so sexy when she does that.

"We're gonna talk about this later."

"Good." You plop back onto your bed, already in just your underwear. Making it easy.

She stands at the foot of your bed gathering her hair into a quick bun, looking down at you approvingly with a sly grin that makes you shiver.

And she climbs on top of you, just like she has automatically every time since the first time you pulled her onto you. She loves being on top. You think it makes her feel in control.

But before she does what you've wanted for hours now, even though it couldn't be clearer that you're ready, she still pauses to check your eyes for permission. She does that every time, and you've decided not to say anything about it. You know she has to do that and maybe always will.

You nod.

And then you're living the scene that's been threatening to sidetrack your work all day.

You, nude, beneath her. Her, still in her work clothes. Sleeves rolled, arm working hard between you. Your legs sliding against her slacks and hands gripping at the back of her shirt. Defiant hair already starting to fall out of her bun and tickle your face.

Detective Rizzoli, but Jane. Cocky grin but heartfelt kisses. Strong hands but deep soft honey voice.

Soft lips make their way down your chest. It's always a surprise hot her mouth is.

"That feel pretty good?" she chuckles, looking up from your nipple. The noise you just made must have been funny. You pull her mouth back where you want it.

She's using her thumb like you taught her. It's too good.

And that's when you say it. You had every intention of saying it at some point, but you meant to plan it better. You didn't mean for your first "fuck me" to just leak out of your mouth.

Both of you pause for just an instant. You find brows high with amusement, probably because you look surprised too, and because she doesn't know you ever say that word, because you don't use it as an interjection. Her grin tells you that little word is going to be taken excellent care of.

She leans down to whisper in your ear when she begins to move again.

And now that she's fine with that, you don't seem to be able to say much else.

You say it and she says it and she does it.

Why does it sound sweet instead of dirty? She is cayenne and sugar. It short circuits your brain in the most wonderful way.

You are so close and she is so.. ? Hot? Gorgeous? Perfect? Yes, but it's not even half about her appearance. There isn't a word how much you adore her, or for her being so familiar she feels like home. There isn't a word for her. She's just Jane. She's so so, so Jane.

You pull at strong shoulders and you beg Jane Jane Jane even though she's already doing exactly what you want. Firmer, faster like you need, even though her arm must burn. Slick and deep and good.

"You close?" she hums, kissing your throat. "You wanna come, beautiful?"

You nod, your throat too dry.

It's not like she's holding your release hostage until you say yes. It's not mindless talk. It's like she's actually checking for your consent even while you're writhing and begging. You mustn't think about why right now.

"Come on, baby," she urges lovingly.

Maybe she's classically conditioning you with that name, because you do immediately.

You fill your quiet bedroom with her name.

You love knowing she's feeling the whole thing with you, from the first crashing wave to the last, faintest ripple.

Looking proud, she drops herself at your side.

Now it's time for a first you actually _did_ plan on.

You reach for her hand and bring it up, where both of you look at her fingers. Wide eyes flick from it to you, and you watch her remember what you once said.

You look at her for permission. She nods like she has to remember how.

Cursing quietly, she slams her eyes shut as soon as you kiss her fingertips.

Still warm.

Her other hand fumbles urgently at her belt buckle and buries itself urgently in her slacks. It looks like you're not the only one who likes this.

You grin, and slide her middle finger softly into your mouth.

She comes almost instantly.

.

You admire the form stretched out on the bed next to you. A little longer and leaner than you. A little darker, stronger, wilder than you. There's some majestic, lazy beauty in the way she's resting with one arm slung over you, like a panther napping on a tree limb.

She would snort if you said that. She would tell you all this sex is making your brain go soft.

You'd ask her to make it even softer and she would.

How did this happen?

This was your heterosexual best friend. _You_ were the one attracted to _her._ _You_ were the one who volunteered to attend to _her_ sexual needs, with no reciprocation. You'd have dropped what you were doing, any time she asked. You still would.

Now, somehow, she's the one doing that for you instead.

Often, she sees to herself after you're taken care of. Sometimes not. When she does, you'll kiss her and encourage her, but that's it.

You want to touch her more than ever. Waiting for that is a little easier now in a way, but harder in another.

She sees you looking at her.

"Better?"

"Better," you sigh.

"You come so pretty." She brushes away the hair stuck to your forehead and kisses there.

"So do you," you smile, touching her lips. "Your voice sounds like honey."

She playfully bites your fingertip between her top teeth and bottom lip, very gently, then kisses it.

"So explain to me again how you don't have a cop thing?"

"I don't. I told you, I have a _you_ thing. I can't help it if you're a cop."

"Good thing I didn't go into the family business or you'd be all hot and bothered about overalls and toilet plungers."

"You'd make it work," you laugh into her collar.

You go quiet for a while, liking the way her thumb is stroking back and forth on your side.

"Jane, I didn't..."

"Huh?"

"I didn't somehow trick you into this, did I?" you frown.

"Into what?"

"This," you gesture at your own naked body. "I mean, _I_ was the one who..."

Her smile goes sideways and you know she knows what you mean.

"You aren't doing this because you feel like you have to keep me happy until you're ready for more, right?"

"I'm doing it 'cause I love you, genius. And it makes us both feel good."

"Does it? Does it make you feel good?"

"It makes me feel great."

It probably is helping to boost her confidence. And pleasing you does promise her a dose of oxytocin as well, although not one that quite compares to yours.

"Even if you don't get a turn?" you ask. "You don't always seem to want one."

You don't mind if she doesn't want to come. You just want to be sure that's the case.

"I don't always. Sometimes I'd rather just relax with you."

"Even if you're wet?"

"Mm-hm." She turns her face against your forehead, so that you feel her lips brush your skin when she speaks. "Sometimes it feels nice just to be wet for you."

You blink, wondering how it would feel to be content with that.

But, oh. Jane wet.

You wonder how wet she gets.

How warm she would feel, and if she would make a sound when you touched her.

How she would taste.

The fantasy of finding out makes you flush all over again. You can't even imagine how it would happen. How she'd ask. How she'd open herself to you.

If the knowledge of what Jane tastes like was something that could be bought, you would tremble your signature onto a check for any amount right now. But you aren't sure how you tell a person that without them getting the wrong idea about your priorities.

"It feels nice to know you are," you reply, impressed at how calm you manage to sound.

The lips already against your forehead purse and relax again.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks, and judging from her voice, she probably already has a good idea.

There's no reason to conceal the answer.

"I'm fantasizing about tasting you."

Silence, for long enough that you start to wonder if you should've said that.

"I think about that a lot," she replies finally.

"Me too."

"Remember the time you said... um, you'd do that for me any time I asked? I.. think about that a lot."

"Still true," you smile, kissing her jaw.

"I have no idea how I'd ask," she admits laughingly.

"What do you mean? You just ask."

"I don't know, it seems like a funny thing to just _ask_ for. Takes some nerve. What am I, some dude," she deepens her voice, " 'hey hon, can I get a BJ and a sandwich?' "

"Firstly, I've never known you to be lacking in nerve, and secondly, you're not some dude, you're the woman I love. And thirdly, I would happily throw in a healthy snack provided you asked nicely."

She laughs, and plays with your fingers for a minute.

"I want you to someday," she says quietly. "I'm trying."

"Take your time. Honey." You're happy she doesn't miss it. "I'll be there when you're ready."

"Would.." she swallows. "Would you tell me about it again?" she asks. Like it's a bedtime story she's slightly embarrassed to enjoy so much. "Tell me how you'll do it?"

"See? Not so hard to ask," you grin.

And you move close to her ear, and you tell her.

* * *

"This is like a speed reading course, there's no time to see what's going- hey, you're not even watching! _You_ chose this."

You open your eyes, smiling with your lips sealed. Honestly, you're enjoying Jane's affection much more than you're enjoying the movie.

"I've seen it before and I understand French," you reply contentedly, settling your head back against her shoulder.

A romantic relationship with a woman has its perks: nobody has ever taken care of you like this when you're on your period. It's not that you _need_ care. You didn't ask for it. You don't even always tell her what day it is, but she's gotten it right every time so far.

Without fail, you receive a fresh glazed donut at your desk midday and a back rub after work. That's been standard for months now.

More recently, you've discovered that she'll consent to watching any movie of your choice, and that if you curl right up against her on the couch, she'll rub gentle, soothing circles low on your abdomen.

No one's ever done that for you, and you would never have asked them to. She must've just seen from your body language that you were uncomfortable, and started doing it. After a moment of surprise, you liked it.

Now you're torn. This is your best chance to get her to watch foreign films with minimal complaint, and you don't want to ruin it.

On the other hand, she's obviously vastly overestimating your pain level, and is it dishonest to let her continue? You didn't ask for this. You're suffering nothing more than a dull ache and never claimed otherwise.

But your itchy neck decides for you.

"I have a confession."

"Yeah?"

"I love the way you pamper me, but I'm not sure my symptoms warrant this treatment... I'm really feeling very little pain."

"Oh. I know," she replies without taking her eyes from the screen.

"How do you know that?"

"Your eyebrow would be doing that thing if you were seriously hurting."

Unconsciously you reach up to touch your brow, like you're going to find something out of place.

You frown. If you have a tell, and she knows better this time, then she's probably known better every time. So why does she still dote on you like a pregnant wife?

"Then why do you do all this for me?"

When she doesn't answer right away, you wonder if she's trying so hard to keep up with the subtitles that she didn't hear you. The movement of her hand stalls for just an instant.

"I don't like you being in a little pain."

You study her profile.

"You're sweet," you declare. "And for someone who doesn't suffer from dysmenorrhea, you certainly have uncanny instincts for how to..."

Wait, why have you had it in your mind that she doesn't - because she never said so? It's not that she isn't a complainer - she absolutely is, just not when it comes to pain. You've sutured wounds without her admitting it hurt.

This is the only woman in a division of men, with sexist ridicule awaiting her if she fails to appear the toughest of them all. And before that, the only girl growing up among her brothers. To admit to pain is to appear weak, and a _female_ brand of pain is the last type she would ever have been in the habit of admitting to.

If she actually had it worse than you, would she tell you so? Probably, if you asked. She tells you things she's never told anyone.

Maybe you're wrong. Still, you can't shake the feeling that this might not be all about you, whether she realizes it or not.

She looks at you to see where the end of your sentence went.

"Hey, don't start bawling on me," she snorts, looking back toward the lovers on the screen. "They're gonna get back together by the end, right?"

You rest your head on her shoulder again, nodding and closing your eyes.


	26. Angela

**Hi ladies. Sorry about disappearing. Thanks to everyone who has been concerned for my wellbeing, you need not worry about me but I appreciate that you have. This story requires me to be in a certain mood and I haven't been in it. Then I discovered I didn't log in for long enough that the next chapters in my doc manager expired and I was too fed up to start over from memory right away. :( Here's a tiny chapter just to show I'm alive while I try to get my thoughts back together.**

* * *

You wake up first, and the sheets are pushed aside enough to see that she's doing that thing again.

Fast asleep, with one hand cupped between the legs of her pajamas.

The first couple of times you saw her doing that, you did wonder, but you've come to understand that it's just a self-comforting gesture.

Your eyes rest on that hand for a little while, your thoughts drifting from Jane away to what you're going to wear today, what messages you have to return, what paperwork you have to finish, what results of yesterday's tests might reveal something interesting.

Suddenly that hand yanks away, returning your focus to the moment.

"I wasn't-" she says groggily, and maybe stops because she knows she wouldn't have to be embarrassed even if she was.

"I know," you smile, and watch her rub her eyes with both hands.

"My hand just goes there. In my sleep. I don't mean to. It's not a... it just feels safe."

"I know."

One minute too late to be necessary, your morning alarm goes off, and you silence it.

She regards you for a long moment in a way that seems not just drowsy but far-off.

"When I started sleeping here I was still wearing three pair.." she trails off, looking past you. You sense that rather than trying to finish it, she is wishing to retract that sentence by ignoring it.

Later, you'll think about that, and about how maybe there's another reason she never wanted to change in front of you.

Right now, you'll let her free herself from the path this morning has begun onto.

You kiss her elbow, because that is what's nearest.

"Are you hungry?"

She returns to you and nods, grateful.

* * *

Two Sundays later, she holds your hand under the dining table and tells her family that you're her girlfriend. It's no surprise to you; you gave your permission. But when six eyes fall on you at once, your face still goes warm in a way you did not expect.

It goes... fine.

Tommy is surprised. Frankie isn't (he's going to be a detective). Both congratulate you.

Angela is harder to read. She's not overjoyed, like you suspect she would be if you were a man. She doesn't say much at all.

The rest of the evening after that is... fine. Uneventful. You spend it trying not to look at Angela too much or too little. If you feel slightly tense, maybe it's just because you're wondering if you ought to.

After you're home, while Jane is busy getting ready for bed, your phone rings and it's Angela.

If this is going to be some kind of confrontation, you are unprepared for it, but you have no reason not to steady yourself and answer.

"I know I wasn't very..."

Although it's endearing how the silences between her words sound just like her daughter's, you don't help her along.

You step out of your shoes, shrinking two inches, and place them back onto their spot in your closet while you wait.

"Maybe I blew it tonight," she sighs, and you can't tell whether it was supposed to be a question or a statement.

"Are you sure this isn't something you'd like to say to Jane?"

"I'll get to Jane. I wanted to talk to you first, to say.. I hope you know how much you mean to me."

All you say is "Oh," and then cringe at yourself, but you don't know what else to add yet.

"I didn't want you to think... honey, nobody could ever ask for a better addition to their family, or a better person for their child than you. Just.. it's the last one of my children I would've guessed. I hope you don't hate me if it takes me a minute to get used to that."

You blink, relaxing somewhat.

Though you wish you weren't something that required getting used to, you recognize this as the best of the potential reactions that Jane prepared you for. And you suppose it's fair, if one has expected one thing for a lifetime, to need longer than a moment's notice to welcome something different.

"Of course I don't hate you," you answer.

Your fingers drift along each shoe, making sure each pair is equidistant and that their toes are all aligned with the front edges of their shelves. Conversations are a little easier, sometimes, if your shoes are all perfect.

"And I realize I'm not what you've always had in mind for Jane. But I believe she is happy with me, and... if what you've wanted for her is someone who loves her completely, then I promise, she has that."

There's a lot more you could say, but you suppose that is the point of all of it.

"I know it was you. The way she..."

The line goes quiet for long enough that you pull the phone from your ear and check whether it's still connected.

".. Angela?"

"You brought her back to life. I just wanted you to know I see that."

* * *

Fingertips find yours and give them an affectionate brush. One two three.

It's an affectionate little greeting she does often when you roll over in the middle of the night. Designed not to disturb you if you're only passing from one sleep into the next, but to be a beacon seeking or offering company if you're awake enough to register it.

When you return the gesture, she shifts closer to you, and you allow your hand to be taken and placed to the back of hers. A moment of pressure lets you know to keep it there. Just awake enough to be curious, you cooperate.

It's not until her hand begins to ferry yours beneath the sheets, moving down in increments, that you form a theory about what's happening. And suddenly you're significantly more awake.

When new things happen in the dark, you've found it's best just to let them, and to react as casually as you can, and not to verbalize it at all if you can help it. That's why you make no comment when your stacked hands slip into their destination, just between the legs of her pajamas.

All you're really touching is the back of her hand, but your heart is still fluttering in your chest. Not with arousal, because this is not sexual, but with joy that she's this comfortable with you, and that she's trusting you to understand what this is and isn't.

Later still, later enough that your heart is beating normally again, maybe even enough that you've dozed off, you feel her hand gingerly slip out from under yours and switch places with it. And there goes your heart rate again.

At the risk of being too wordy, you kiss her head when it leans to rest against yours.

By the time the sun just begins to lighten the room, she's asleep again.

And although you're sleepy too, this is too important. You need to do a good job. If it helps her feel just a little safer, you'd be happy to lay here for another eight hours, still as stone, and hold her in the palm of your hand.

* * *

 **I've never wanted to write a coming out part, so this is all there will be of this. This story has enough tensions without adding family drama! Angela would be old fashioned but I never pictured her as the foaming at the mouth homophobe she tends to be in fanfics. Anyway thanks to anybody who's still following along, I'll do my best to update again this century.**


	27. Lateral lumbar fossa (x)

**Sexy chapter alert.**

* * *

Jane steps out of the shower with one of your fluffy towels wrapped around herself.

Tanned olive skin plus white towel plus her messy bun of raven curls makes a positively delicious color palette.

Don't stare. You don't want her to feel like she can't even walk past you undressed without you taking it as an invitation.

You begin to brush your teeth, but slow when you realize she's just standing behind you.

Her eyes are not meeting yours in the mirror, rather they seem to be fixed on your shoulder, which is mostly exposed now that you're down to your camisole and slacks. Shoes, jewelry and makeup are already off. It was your turn next in the shower.

She bows her head a little to kiss your shoulder, and it becomes clearer that she's preoccupied in the same way you are. You half-smile in the mirror, to your own reflected gaze since hers doesn't seem to be joining in.

Her arms slip around you, mood apparently not discouraged by your spitting and rinsing.

You turn around in her grasp and slip your arms around her neck, meeting her in the middle for the kiss she has obviously been waiting for. It's soft and deep and minty.

"You have plans," you smirk, brushing away the squiggle of wet hair that's stuck to her zygomatic arch.

"Maybe."

"Do these plans bear any similarity to last night's?"

She nods, biting her lip, which really leaves you no choice but to kiss her. You wonder if she's figured out the correlation.

"Well then, I plan on enjoying your plans."

"I wante-" she falters, like she sometimes does when she's trying to ask for something new. Even though she's comfortable with you, and knows you'd do anything in the world for her, this still takes courage.

Oh, how you love her.

You tell her so by nuzzling a small kiss into her cheek. And you share one of those close up tiny tender smiles that gets both of you unexpectedly misty. The kind you wish you could save in a photo album. The kind you wish you could show to your 28-year-old self who tearfully resigned herself to the notion that she must not be capable of experiencing that.

She kisses you again, long and slow and deep, and at the end of it, her hands are untucking her towel. Not dropping it, like you almost think for a second, but carefully lowering it and re-wrapping it snugly around her waist, baring herself to you all the way down to her navel.

For a few moments you don't do a thing but soak in the sight, smiling stupidly. It's not the first time you've seen her body, but it is your first clear, close-up, straight-on look.

"You really are astoundingly beautiful, Jane," you grin, linking one of your fingers with one of hers.

She shrugs faintly, a little pink under your gaze and not knowing what to do with that compliment as usual.

You bring your other hand up to her chest, checking her eyes before placing it to her skin.

"You're hot," you remark, and she knows you meant from the shower, but you both laugh when you hear it anyway.

And you trail one finger straight down her sternum, down the mid line of her abdominal muscles that harden in its wake, arriving at her navel. You've wanted to do that for a while.

You slip your arms around her and hug her body against yours, both palms on her back, absorbing the heat of her bare skin.

This isn't a very first, either. You've slept together both topless a few times now. Just slept. You behaved exactly as you do when she is clothed, only wanting her to get comfortable with the intimacy without adding any obligations.

That's always what you do with her. Keep things at the safest level, the status quo, and let her be the one to build. You don't have to be told she appreciates it.

Last night, you touched her bare breasts for the first time when her hands guided yours there. Despite the effect it had on you, you kept it safe. It was lovely and nothing else happened. Maybe tonight will be the continuation.

"I'm getting your clothes wet."

You meet her eyes, needing to check whether that was genuine concern for your clothing (she still doesn't have a perfect grasp on their proper care and so regards every garment you own with equal wariness) or if she's making that sly face.

It's the sly face.

"You can say that again," you reply with a similar expression.

You let her undress you until you're equally bare.

Her fingers slide down your back, dipping just into the waist of your slacks and pressing at two matching spots on your lower back.

"What are these things?"

"Lateral lumbar fossa," you answer, playing with a loose wisp of hair at her nape. "Those are the joints where the spine attaches to the pelvis."

"I like 'em."

"They're also sometimes called 'dimples of Venus'."

"Now _that's_ a way better name for what I'm seeing."

You realize she's not only touching, but looking in the mirror. Too bad you weren't the one facing that direction. You would've enjoyed this visual.

"You have them, too."

When you go to touch hers, you find the towel is situated slightly too high. While you doubt it would be disastrous if you slipped a fingertip just barely beyond it, you've always treated her clothing as an absolute barrier and it's not worth changing that over some sacroiliac joints.

She squeezes you slightly in what might be recognition.

"Yeah, I just never knew what they were called."

You smile to yourself.

"Remember that day you wanted me to see you nude?"

There's an amused exhale somewhere in your hair.

"Can't believe I did that. That was awkward... and embarrassing and nerve-wracking and... the most exciting thing that happened in years."

You chuckle.

"I wanted so badly to tell you how beautiful you are. And to thank you for letting me see you."

She drops a kiss onto your shoulder, hands wandering.

"Was that all you wanted to do?"

It's meant to be a leading question, but you can only answer it honestly.

"That's all. You wouldn't have wanted more, back then. Would you?"

"I guess not."

She's quiet for a moment, hands resuming their slow trek across your skin once she finishes processing a thought.

"How about now? Assuming I wanted it."

You're impressed at how open-ended that was. You could ask for much more than you're about to.

You've kissed her lips thousands of times, but you've still never kissed her anywhere that her clothing doesn't expose.

"I'd like to kiss your skin somewhere I never have before."

"I'd like that too."

You skim your smiling lips down the side of her face, down the side of her neck. That's still a place you're very careful with. Someday, you want very much to kiss her throat, the way she does for you. But that's a subject of its own, best left for another day.

Delicately you kiss where her neck slopes into her shoulder, blurring the lines between safe and uncharted territories. You don't think you imagine a breath past your ear.

"There."

"There?"

"M-hmm. I've never kissed you there before," you explain, making sure your breath is warm on that spot. " _Here -_ " you indicate with a different kiss an inch away on her shoulder, one often exposed by her tank tops, "- yes. But not there."

"Anywhere else?" she urges.

"Well, there are certainly a few other places... here, for instance."

You press your lips again, barely beneath the same spot.

"Uh huh.."

"And here."

Hands slip into your hair, not only for contact but for guidance. You're grateful for that. It removes some of the guesswork.

You kiss the droplets of water from her shoulders and you kiss her clavicles and you kiss her chest. She guides you lower, and you kiss the space between her breasts. Her heart is hammering right against your lips with both nervousness and excitement.

Maybe because she's distracted, you feel the towel begin to slip before she does. All four hands grab for it, but yours are first.

Without looking up at her, you continue to kiss the renewed pounding at the center of her chest. Gripping that towel together with one hand, silently promising you'll hold it for her if she trusts you to.

It takes a minute, but when you feel a kiss on your head and hands threading back into your hair, you know she has trusted you.

She lets your lips wander wherever they may. It's not until you kiss her nipple that her hold freezes, keeping you there.

A noise gets caught in her throat when you part your lips around the hard bud and begin to very gently-

"Can-" she blurts abruptly enough to make you stop, "uh, can we go to bed?"

Oh. Yes, that would be better. Somehow you lost track of the fact that you're standing at an unsustainably awkward stoop in your bathroom.

It's not solely a matter of changing location though, otherwise she would've simply led you there. You know what it is: she does want to go to bed, but not in a towel and not nude. You want to give her a chance to get dressed however she would rather be.

"Good idea. Is everything off downstairs?" you nod, knowing full well that it isn't because it's barely 9 o'clock.

"No."

"Then why don't I go take care of that, since I'm dressed... kind of. And then we'll go to bed," you smile sweetly and kiss her once more, breathing into her ear for good measure, "and you can teach me how you like your nipples sucked."

"I-" she turns a little pinker. "I mean.. I think you've pretty much..." she gives up, nodding.

You leave her with a chuckle, heading downstairs in just your slacks. You make the rounds, turning off lights and making sure the doors are locked, smiling to yourself at what the rest of the evening is going to hold.

By the time you return, she's in her trusty gray pajama pants, still bare from the waist up, waiting for you in bed.

You shed your slacks and slide in next to her, and she looks at you like she's waiting to see if you're going to comment on the fact that she's on her back. You're not.

Jane likes her nipples sucked very softly. You've had that information filed away for a long time now, but you still delight in spending the evening learning what exactly that means.

You learn where to touch to make her nipples harden, and where elicits only a ticklish shiver.  
You learn which of your little methods she likes, which she doesn't, and how to tell even in silence.  
You learn that she holds your head when she likes what you're doing, and she arches just a little when you suckle her just right.

But even after quite some time, none of this leaves her writhing with lust, and your biggest lesson of the evening is that it isn't supposed to. When she said she liked this, she meant exactly that. She sighs and combs fingers through your hair and just _enjoys_ it. Sometimes she asks you for more, but she means quantity, not intensity. Sometimes she wants to kiss you, but it's in that dreamy, affectionate way of hers.

It's not lost on you that she's letting you basically be on top of her for this. You can still picture the anxiety on her face when you used to lean over her, just for the sake of the exercise. That's gone now. Now isn't the time to say so, but you're so proud of her progress.

Her tolerance for that position isn't infinite, however, and she has no trouble turning the tables once she's had enough.

"My turn," she announces, rolling on top of you. You laugh, exactly where you like to be.

The shift in pace is seamless and unannounced. She kisses you deeply, harder, not dallying. This is for you now, and she knows that she's the one who likes things soft and slow, not you. Not always, anyway.

You wriggle out of your thong, clearing the way for her to slip into you.

She makes love to you with her mouth on your breasts, repaying all your favors. That doesn't have to be new to get an enthusiastic orgasm out of you. She slows but doesn't stop, taking her time treating you to an encore, asking to hear you come for her again. As if you need to be asked.

And then, maybe it's just because of where your legs are, but she brushes against your thigh too many times to be coincidental.

It's not like her to introduce two firsts in one night. You watch her realize what she's doing. She pauses, looking you in the eye. Deciding.

You smile up at her, still breathing hard. Hoping please please but staying absolutely still.

She kisses you again, settling against you and continuing. You move your knee so it works better for her, and brushing eases into grinding.

"Shit," she whispers, mouth opening.

"What?"

"My underwear," she answers shakily. "I am _so.._ wow."

"I'll buy you new underwear," you chuckle, sliding your hands down her back.

Oh. There are those Venus dimples. Easily accessible now, and an ideal vantage point for feeling the roll of her hips.

She lets out a small moan.

This is a new favorite already. You've always loved the feeling of her above you, but never was it for her own pleasure. The control this gives her is perfect. You can feel her warmth pressing against you, even though her clothes.

You just hold her and kiss her, letting yourself be rocked faintly by her motion against you. Until she's too out of breath to do anything but rest her head next to your shoulder while her hips go on pushing desperately.

"Maur?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm gonna."

"I know."

She says it again, into your neck. It's not a warning. It's her looking forward to it.

You're looking forward to it too, for all the same reasons. You've heard and seen her come lots of times, but you've never gotten to feel it before. You've never gotten to hold her in your arms before.

"I've got you, darling," you breathe, reshaping your embrace into one more resembling a hug. Already becoming what she'll need after. "I love you and I've got you."

She moans. And she lets it happen.

The way Jane's body moves against yours is the most breathtaking mixture of power and vulnerability. You love feeling the strength in her hips but also every helpless shudder and moan that rumbles through her, until she goes limp halfway on top of you.

You slide your fingers into the hair at her nape and massage there softly, like the way you do to soothe her when she cries, because if you know her at all, she's about to. She often does, after firsts. It's a part of her release and of her growth.

Tonight had new things; things that were beautiful and lovely for both of you, but which also took a great deal of courage for her, and emotional energy that you wouldn't fully understand. You just know that this is perhaps the most crucial moment of all. It's her favorite, and the one that cements all the rest, provided you take good care of her.

You might as well exist just to take perfect care of her in this moment.

Sure enough, she tucks her face against your neck and cries. It's a small, sweet kind of cry, something you've come to love for being another form of intimacy she shares only with you. Privately, you think you'll miss it if she stops when you run out of firsts.

Once you've cooled a little, and once she's heaved that final contented sigh, you pull the sheet over her the way she likes. And you keep her snugly in your arms, kissing her temple, stroking lovingly up and down her back. You don't want to stop even after she's asleep.


	28. Stairs (x)

**Sexy chapter again.**

* * *

Frost has dimmed the lights in BRIC to show you all the pattern he's noticed throughout hours of security camera video.

Watching security footage is not even remotely your job. You're mainly still here because of the fingertips that have just given the ghost of a rub to the bruise on your lower back. Affection and apology and knowing.

Your love for the owner of these fingers could dissolve you into a puddle on the floor, but it's 11am and there's work to be done.

"I'm going to go see how the chromatography's coming along," you excuse yourself, pushing the door open.

"Okay, beautif- Doc _-_ Maura _._ " Jane clears her throat.

Snorts and snickers fill the room.

"Nice save," you hear Frost smirk as the door closes behind you.

"Yeah, okay. She's beautiful, alright, sue me."

You chuckle out loud on the way to elevator.

You're happy.

Life is good and months have been flying by. Work is rewarding, and so is your home life and social life.

It has a lot to do with Jane being in a good place, and your relationship having hit a good stride. She still has bad times, but they've been feeling like more of an exception than an expectation. The everydays have been good. You've been going out more again, together and individually.

You've upgraded Frost and Korsak from friends-by-association to actual friends. You've also made a friend of Senior Criminalist Susie Chang, who reliably shares your excitement about things that would take too long to explain to anyone else.

The Rizzoli family has absorbed you.

Angela, as it turns out, didn't take long to come around. Jane says maybe too far around. You might be annoyed by her tendency to call or appear at inopportune times just to talk, had you not hungered for that sort of relationship all your life.

She cooks at your house like it's her own. She shows you how to make a few dishes that Jane likes, and you do her the honor of acknowledging that Jane will always prefer her rendition of it. You say this partly because the secret is three times more butter than you could envision yourself feeding to someone whose health you care about.

Frankie is your brother now. You feel that way because sometimes your eyes will meet to share an unspoken thought, the way you've always seen the siblings do amongst each other. Hours after the first time that happened, you were still smiling to yourself about how _included_ that .6 seconds of eye contact made you feel.

For a while, you weren't sure whether Tommy merely had a flirtatious personality or was still estimating his chances with you at something slightly above zero. Jane assured you it's the former, but still expressed her readiness to "slap the stupid out of him" any time you say.

Either brother can sometimes be found on your property committing minor acts of handiwork - usually unsolicited, so you're grateful they're good at it.

Jane is less appreciative.

"Like _I_ don't know how to fix a J-bend?" you recently heard her ask a pair of legs sticking out from under your guest bathroom sink. You thanked the legs and brought them one of Jane's beers, which she also did not appreciate.

As whole as all of this makes you feel, you'd be lying if you claimed your sex life wasn't the most fun part.

She keeps you pleased and, at least in private, isn't shy about it. She's getting better all the time. You're sure she would try just about anything you asked for, although there are certain things you never would.

Jane pleasing you and you pleasing Jane are still two completely different stories, but there's no more walking on eggshells about it.

Once she truly came to accept that the mismatch isn't secretly a problem for you, you think she relaxed a lot. Once you accepted that her shyness isn't embarrassment, and her nervousness isn't fear, you relaxed a lot too.

She's strong for you; you're soft for her. Equilibrium is not your goal.

There are little steps with her all the time, and a slow pace gives you time to savor each. But little things aren't little with Jane. They're huge things that tear at your heart and reshape your view of the world and leave you giddy and emotional for days.

You never know when one is going to happen.

But the one that happened yesterday, which happened to be your birthday, was a big one. Although it wasn't meant as a gift, it was your favorite gift of all time. You only wish you could remember it just a little more clearly.

Both of you were still feeling your beer and wine, respectively, when you got home from the celebration.

It started when she picked you up in the kitchen.

No- she picked you up after you commented on her strength. She's been doing a lot of boxing workouts lately, and you squeezed her biceps and said something about her muscles. That's why she picked you up. Or possibly before that...

Ok, it isn't important how exactly it started.

The point is that she gave you one of those cocky smiles and attempted to carry you upstairs in the dark, and somewhere in the middle she slipped, and you both fell in a heap, laughing.

Then you felt her above you as she tried to get her bearings, and the bit of arousal you'd kept on the back burner all evening suddenly boiled over. The bedroom was too far away. You wanted her, you _needed_ her right there on the stairs.

She indulged you.

It was so good. _Every_ time is good, but some times are exceptional even if you couldn't really say why, and this was one of those.

Nothing else mattered than her fingers driving inside you, not even the fact that you'd chosen possibly _the_ most uncomfortable surface in your entire house. You needed her to fuck you, and you didn't care whether you were comfortable, in fact that small but escalating bit of pain only fueled you somehow. The hot, messy spontaneity of it pushed you high, fast.

You squeezed her by fistfuls of the back of her shirt, even sort of managing to get one leg around her just in time to come, hard and loud and unladylike, right in her ear.

But that had not even been the remarkable part. Alone in the elevator, you blush at the memory, touching your face to feel that it's warm.

She chuckled "Happy birthday, Maura," and kissed you. And when she retreated, you thought it was over too soon. That's usually a step she enjoys taking her time with - just kissing you, soothing you, taking pride in her work while you catch your breath. Uncomfortable stairs or not, you missed that enough that you almost began to pout.

Until you felt lips on the inside of your thigh and realized.

You had never been presumptuous enough to wonder when this would happen. _Maybe_ if, but not when. But suddenly, it was now.

With shaking hands you actually tried to tear your brand new Nanette Lepore skirt to give her better access. It didn't work. She laughed.

She pushed it up for you and her mouth joined her fingers.

You simply did not know what to do with yourself in the face of that much shock and pleasure. A very unique sound escaped you, which seemed to amuse her.

You propped one foot on a rail, accidentally kicking that shoe over the edge of the steps, where it would sit unretrieved until morning.

A war began between you and your hands. They desperately wanted to be in her hair, but you feared overwhelming her by pulling too hard on her very first time. You forced them instead to grab at any other surfaces within reach, a rail and the edge of a wooden step.

That step made a painful fulcrum against your L2 vertebra as you rocked yourself against her mouth, but you have no regrets even now that the bruise has fully formed. It was far too good for you to care.

She already knew how you like to be touched. It should not have been a surprise that it translated well.

You squeezed that rail for dear life and pleaded her name so many times that it became a chant inseparable from your breathing.

The heat of her mouth is what stands out in your memory. Had it been so long that you forgot mouths were hot?

Or was it that it was _Jane's_ mouth? Or was it that you could tell it was for her own enjoyment too, and not just yours? Giving, but wanting as well.

She knew what you tasted like already. She had learned that from her own fingers several times, a sight that never failed to leave you breathless.

But she had never tasted you directly before. And you hope this conclusion wasn't biased too much by arousal, but you think she enjoyed it.

That, you're pretty sure, was the unbearable thought that sent you over the edge. That she knew what your orgasms sounded, looked, and felt like, but that now she was going to taste one.

Your hand was in her hair anyway. She didn't seem to mind.

Afterward, she climbed on top of you, laughing that the neighbors might've enjoyed that one almost as much as you did. And when she kissed you with extra warm lips, an aftershock made you whimper into her mouth.

And then she was grinding against your thigh with urgent need. It wasn't surprising that it lasted only moments, although you could've listened to that deep, ragged breathing for much longer. Strong hips jolted you against the steps, and you moaned along with her, a little pained and a lot aroused at her power.

She rested just long enough to catch her breath before helping you up, apologizing for your discomfort. It was only with some laughter and real teamwork that you completed your ascent of the stairs together on four Jello legs.

You hope there isn't more that you've forgotten. You must have just gone to sleep.

Your next memory is of adoring the way she smiled at you this morning, somehow shy and proud at once.

"Not enough sleep, Dr. Isles?"

You startle slightly, opening eyes you didn't realize were closed. An amused Susie Chang is holding the elevator doors from sliding shut. You wonder how long you were standing there. You hope you weren't smiling.

"Oh," you answer, blushing again, grateful for her misinterpretation. "I'm afraid not."

Or _was_ that a misinterpretation?

Thankfully, she is on her way somewhere and you don't have to explain any further. You retreat to your office where you hope you can at least manage a semblance of professionalism.

You slip into place behind your desk, smirking faintly to yourself at the way the back of the chair presses against the sore spot on your spine.

There is nothing you want so much as to fall back into your sheets and feel the warmth of her mouth again.

(Or maybe just as much, you wish you could do the same for her. It'll be her birthday in a couple of weeks; how much you would love returning her gift, if that were really an option.)

Will this be something she reserves for special occasions, or is it a new addition to her regular repertoire? You suppose you'll find out soon enough. There will be plenty of time for that this evening.

Now is time to focus. Now is time to work.

You take a deep breath and log into your computer.


	29. Remember me (tw)

**_This chapter is going to be 2x10 so trigger warning for Hoyt stuff._** ** _(Sorry an angsty part landed around Christmas, lol. I can at least say it's not a cliffhanger or anything.)_**

* * *

"Happy Birthday, Jane."

You're sure you're having a nightmare.

Any moment now you're going to sit up with a gasp, and Jane will be right next to you. She'll put her arms around you and everything will be okay.

Yes. Jane is sleeping next to you. Not supine on a cot across the infirmary, shaking with terror in zip-tied hands.

Charles Hoyt couldn't possibly be holding a scalpel to her throat.

Only moments ago he looked half-dead, even closer than you found him yesterday. Cancer had reduced to a colorless, frail thing, looking helpless in his bed. Jane wasn't afraid of him. Her wariness and loathing were palpable, yes, but she was not afraid. It did you good to see her standing over him. The victor. Tall and whole and healthy.

So how is she now the one on that bed, and he the one looming over her?

You actually almost shout at him not to lean over her like that because she doesn't like it.

You've just sitting there like a spectator. It doesn't seem real. And you've heard so many stories of her taking down perps far larger and stronger than herself, so you take it for granted that she has this under control. Any moment now, she could overpower him.

Any moment.

He cuts her... she doesn't fight.

It's not a killing wound. He's only toying with her.

She isn't dying but she isn't fighting. You've never seen anyone look more afraid. And you don't blame her one bit. This is her exact worst fear.

She's frozen.

That's what makes you realize you really are both going to die today. Jane was your only real hope here. You can struggle all you want, but you aren't going to be able to save her from two armed men with your hands tied. You know that.

You meant not to cry out loud for her sake, but as soon as he turns to you, you fail immediately.

The little white arc of electricity jumps into you and everything goes rigid. A gasp gets trapped in your lungs. You are a mass of burning numbness, your thoughts are files spilled out of their folders, dumped all over the floor.

Any chance you had of even attempting to get out of this is now over.

You wonder what he's going to do. You know his modus operandi. He's not just a murderer (what kind of world is this where you could consider someone "just" a murderer?) but a rapist. He's weak; it seems unlikely that he would be able, but then again, he has already surprised you once today.

But which of you would it be? Which of the bodies at those crime scenes are you analogous to? Thinking about it makes you too sick.

Or maybe... maybe he doesn't know you're anything more than coworkers. Maybe he isn't interested if he doesn't know you're a couple.

You were regretting not telling her you loved her in case those would be your last words, but maybe that's the worst possible thing you could have done.

"Hoyt, don't you touch her!"

If a voice alone could kill, you think he would drop dead. You don't think you've ever heard that much fear and ferocity in anybody's voice before, let alone at the same time. You could almost smile that anybody feels that strongly about you. You could almost smile that her spark has not completely gone out, even if it's too late.

It's all happening fast. He doesn't delay.

The scalpel that's going to end your life still has Jane's blood on it.

You're grateful for the cocktail of stress hormones flooding into your bloodstream and making you numb enough that you barely feel being murdered. All it amounts to is a tickle at your throat, really. First an itchy cold one, then a warm, wet and spreading one.

So it's done. The clock starts ticking on the last three to five minutes of your life.

You hear yelling, and sounds of a struggle. Terrible sounds. Jane sounds.

He must be killing her.

She must be so frightened and you can't even lift a finger to help. Not even blink away tears.

Unfair things happen all the time in this world; your job has shown you so every single day. But you're in disbelief that evil has triumphed in this particular case, and that the last thing you're ever going to hear is that evil snuffing out the most beautiful thing you have ever known.

Very soon, someone's going to write "exsanguination" on your chart, but that will be wrong. You are dying of a broken heart.

The room goes white.

* * *

The Renaissance painters were wrong. Angels are handsome African-American men wearing suits.

Oh, wait. That's Detective Frost. And you don't believe in angels.

"Hey, Doc."

"Zane," you manage. Your eyes search for her before you even recognize the room. It smells like gunpowder and ozone and she isn't on the cot where she was before. She isn't there at all. Your heart begins to race.

"She's okay. You're both okay."

"Sees ok?"

"Yeah, she's fine. Hoyt's dead, and so is his apprentice."

Your head spins. This reversal is too hard to process.

"Where," you beg for proof, still frightened because you can't see her.

"They're just fixing her up with a couple bandages," he points somewhere with his thumb. "Probably be done by now if she'd cooperate. You know how she is."

You're processing his words on a slight delay. Hope mingles with the panic in your rubbery limbs.

"Nothing serious, don't worry," he adds. "Yours isn't real bad either, but she made them do you first."

Only now that he mentions it, you can feel the adhesive tug of a bandage on your skin when you swallow.

Your thoughts are clearer, but still not normal. Trying to pin down your last memory is like reaching for something you can only barely brush with your fingertips, and even that causing it to slide a little farther away.

You don't remember Frost arriving, but he must be the reason you're alive.

"Sank you. For saving us."

He smiles with meanings you can't decipher.

"Jane saved you. We were just backup."

Even though you thought you were both dead less than a minute ago, you don't doubt that at all.

You wonder whether Jane assigned him to make sure you didn't wake up alone, or if he came on his own. He's a good man. You're grateful for his company, and that he lets you rest without speaking.

Soon there are voices. Near yet far; muffled, sharper, muffled again. A door having opened and closed.

It's her. It's her, she would keep people out of the room for you like that. It's her. Is it her?

The instant you see her, you burst into tears so suddenly that you startle yourself.

This isn't the petrified victim you last saw. This is a lioness fresh from battle. Tall and rumpled and bloody and fearsome and do not fuck with me and the most wonderful thing you've ever seen. And all she's looking for is you.

"Maura?"

If you had control of your body, you'd leap up and throw your arms in a desperate hug around her neck. But you've been robbed of that moment and all you're going to be able to do is cry.

"Maura," The cot shifts as her weight replaces Frost's. "Are you okay?"

"Zane-"

"I love you." Fierce lips on your temple, hair all over your face. Voice rough and a little hoarse. "I love you, baby, I'm so sorry."

Something is distracting you from being smothered in her relief and love. Your body feels all wrong, like you've been autopsied and had all your viscera reassembled incorrectly and somehow you still woke up again. Something needs to come out of you, but it's not the 'I love you' you want to echo back.

All your strength isn't quite enough to roll away from her to the edge of the cot, and she helps you with a small push just in time so you can vomit a little over the side.

"I know, right?" she says with weak levity, gathering your hair and rubbing your back.

"I love you," you breathe feebly. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm here," she stretches out alongside you and puts her arms around you. "I'm here."

Even though you want more than anything to comfort her, it is she who holds and soothes you while you regain control of your body. You don't feel neurologically paralyzed so much as profoundly exhausted, like every muscle has been wrung completely dry of energy.

The more you want to say, the less the lump in your throat allows you to speak. All you manage is to choke out her name a few times.

Eager to leave this place for her sake, you try to get up. Too soon. Your vision fades and your knees buckle and if not for her support, you'd slip to the ground like a wet noodle. You sob into her shirt at the way her arms are strong and sure and there to catch you, even at a time like this. How anyone could be so strong, you have no idea.

Little pieces must keep dropping out of your memory, because as soon as you're at your front door, you have little recollection of how you got there. It involved a wheelchair. Korsak's eyes checking yours in a rear view mirror. Arms around your waist, taking your weight when you walked.

You use the fumes of energy heading straight to the couch, but she gets there first, spreading a throw blanket over the cushions just before you half-fall onto them.

"I just need to.." you mutter, eyes closed. Ears are ringing loudly.

"I know."

It's not until she tucks the loose half of that blanket carefully around you that you realize you're shaking. Not shivering from cold, although you do feel cold, but tremors you cannot steady. She rubs gently at your arm, just to make sure you know she's there.

When you gather your wits, you understand that she's sitting on the floor by you, doing nothing other than waiting to be what you see when you open your eyes.

"Hey," she offers you a smile. Although genuine, it's composed of many things besides happiness. "Home safe."

Taking both your hands, she inspects your wrists and kisses them and kisses your knuckles until she's just holding your hands to her face, leaning her cheek on the edge of the couch cushions, maybe lost in thought. You enjoy the warm rhythmic flow of her breath on your fingers.

She shouldn't be sitting on the floor like a faithful dog. She should be the one resting on the couch. You want to move over... you almost have enough strength to do it.

"Jane.."

She lifts her head immediately.

"I know," she says with a final kiss, rising as if you've given her a list of things to do.

She turns on the TV, lowers the volume, and flips a few channels until leaving it on a rerun of a sitcom that you don't especially like and you didn't know she did, either.

"Want some advil or anything?"

"No."

She disappears out of your view in the kitchen for a moment.

"You'd like red better," she returns, twisting the cap from a blue Gatorade bottle, "but it was in the fridge and this one wasn't."

You wet your lips.

"Artificial." You look distastefully at the electric blue liquid you've lectured her about so many times.

She laughs out loud, a great big laugh that her eyes are wet at the end of, and kisses your head.

"Yeah," she sets it down and opens the red bottle that was tucked under her arm, handing it to you. "But it makes you feel better."

The cold red liquid is unpleasant to touch and to drink, but at least it helps rinse out the awful taste in your mouth which you can't account for. She takes the bottle back so you don't have to hold it.

You close your eyes, not napping but just resting, until you suddenly worry how much time has passed and whether she's still there.

She's still sitting on the coffee table. Not staring at you, but just quietly there with you. When you glance down and see it, you realize she's been holding your hand the whole time.

Look at her. Looking at you like you're her only concern in the world. Like she didn't just almost die, too.

How many times have you entertained silly little fantasies about saving her from Hoyt? Tonight you had your chance, and you were useless.

"I'm sorry," you croak. "Jane. I didn't." Most of your words seem to be falling out of a gap between your brain and mouth.

Never before have your mind and body failed to obey you like this, and you are outraged.

You can accept that she saved you, not vice versa. Fine. But you could at _least_ be comforting her right now, and you can't even manage that. You haven't even hugged her yet.

"You saved my life," you quaver. When you lift your arms to her and you know it looks like you're asking to be comforted, because she melts for you and gathers you so urgently, blanket and all. And you're so frustrated at yourself that you start crying again, and you know _that_ looks like a want of comfort as well.

Your meaning is not getting across. But the security of her embrace is far too lovely to protest.

When she lets you sit back, brushing your hair out of your way for you, one of her fingers grazes the tape on your neck and she looks at it terrified for half an instant.

"So," she takes a very deep breath. "We smell like shit."

You almost smile in agreement.

The whiffs you keep catching of yourself, or maybe her, are nauseating. Institutional disinfectant and gunpowder and terror sweat all dried into a layer of grime permeating your clothes and skin and hair. You already know that soap and water won't wash away everything that feels wrong, but it would help to feel physically clean.

The staircase looms above you like Mount Everest, and at the summit is your bathtub and your bed. You _can_ do it, but you'll have to go slowly.

You plant a foot on the first stair, and then both leave the floor.

"How are you so strong?" you murmur as she begins carrying you up the stairs, not realizing you'd said it out loud until she responds.

"Bunch of stuff didn't kill me, I guess," she answers, doing her best to pretend this isn't strenuous.

It makes half sense, and that's good enough for now.

She sets you down by the dressing chair in the bathroom and draws a bath for you. Brushing your teeth becomes your first unaided achievement of the evening.

Onto the tile floor behind you go her blazer and boots and socks, and she's still taller than you even after shrinking an inch.

You manage your own undressing mostly, but you appreciate her help reaching your bra hooks, and the way she checks your eyes first.

She steadies you getting into the tub, and then you expect her to head for the shower as you begin washing yourself, but instead she kneels by the tub and starts to lather your hair for you.

Another protest dies on your lips as you realize how hard lifting your arms like that would've been. You give in and let her fingers massage your scalp, strong and gentle. If you can detach from the occasion, it really is a nice sensation.

When she rinses, she's careful not to let it run into your eyes or wet the bandage on your neck.

"Wanna get out, or soak while I shower?"

The warm water is helping to ease your tremors.

"Soak."

"Okay." She folds a towel for you to rest your head on, and supports you as you lean back even though you don't need her to. Hesitating before rising, she checks your eyes once more.

"You good?" she asks, and you can tell it's not that she thinks you might drown without her help, but that she hates to leave your side.

You smile yes.

"Okay." And before getting up, she leans over and kisses your forehead like she's going abroad for a year instead of five feet away for two minutes.

You smile at her back while she gets out of the rest of her clothes, closing your eyes when you know she would want you to.

You're falling deeper in love with this woman with practically every word and motion. You thought you loved her this morning. That was the continental shelf. You are in the Marianas Trench of falling in love.

The water melts that voluminous mane into black ink that swirls down her shoulders. It's something you always enjoy watching. She showers fast, scrubbing her skin with water so hot you can see the steam.

Getting out of the tub is an exhausting task even with her help, and that's why you have to sit on the bed to rest - not because you expect her to bring you your clothes, but she already has by the time you try to explain that. She selects what are incidentally your least favorite panties and pajamas, but you smile at her choice of t-shirt.

She brought it home from work a couple of weeks ago after questioning a shop owner; it's baby blue, has the words "ONE SMART COOKIE" on the front with little chocolate chip cookies for the O's. She said it made her think of you. You hadn't worn it yet.

You wriggle into your pajamas and then she's kneeling, putting some of her crew socks on you and giving each foot a brisk rub.

Look at this. She saved your life and now she's making sure your toes are warm. A tear rolls down your cheek as you watch her.

Smiling at you, she cups your cheek and brushes it with a thumb. She comes in close, letting you close the distance before kissing your lips softly.

Sometime soon, when she's okay and when your body is functioning properly, you want to make love with her. The kind that's very slow and very soft and you both might cry the entire time.

This kiss is the little piece of that you can both manage for right now.

"How's your head feel?"

It's a combination of disorientation, drowsiness, mental and emotional and physical fatigue, and slightly nauseating spatial disequilibrium, but is easier to leave it at, "Odd."

"It'll feel better in the morning," she promises. "You look sleepy."

"Mm-hmm."

"Hang on."

A moment later she plugs in the dryer by your bed, and your protest is drowned out by the sound of her blow drying your hair for you. You'd laugh if you didn't feel guilty.

As you get situated in bed, you see her fiddle with her phone and then set it on the nightstand with quiet whooshing sounds emanating from it.

"Do I hear the ocean?"

"It helps hide the ringing," she answers, getting into bed sitting up against the headboard.

Before you can unpack all your questions pertaining to how she knows your ears are ringing, she pats the sheets beside her.

"C'mere, I want to tell you something."

You fill her waiting arms, laying your head on her chest.

"Today was scary as hell. But we're safe now. And he can never hurt you again." She pulls the covers up high around you.

It feels so good to close your eyes and escape your faulty senses and melt into her. She cradles your head protectively, kissing the top, and resting her face there so that you feel the warmth of her breath in your hair.

"And this isn't gonna be easy to forget. But you remember this part... you're not alone. I'm right here, and I'd do anything for you. Okay?"

Your heart aches.

"I love you, Jane," you sigh, sorry you can't better express the depth of your feelings.

"I love you too."

A problem occurs to you just as you've already begun to drift.

"You're not sleepy."

"I'll catch up."

The last thing you want to do is leave her awake alone on this night, but your lids are already terribly heavy.

"Let's watch a movie," you suggest, lifting your head.

She snorts softly, pulling you back against her and smoothing your hair.

"Sleep, Maura."

"I don't want to," you fight, wanting to keep her company until she falls asleep, like it's always been your job to do.

"I know. But I promise it's better if you do. You'll be safe. I'll be here. It'll be okay."

"What about you?"

"I'll be okay too," she promises with another kiss. "I just want to hold onto you for a while."

It's a surprise that you could fall asleep so easily after a night like this, and with tear-stung eyes and twitchy muscles and all the lights on. But you're no match for her warmth, her soothing caresses and small kisses; for how you can hear the beating of her heart and the whoosh of the waves, way down here in the Marianas Trench.


	30. Healing

You open your eyes and shut them again against bright morning light.

Fingers draw lightly through your hair in greeting while you wake up beneath your eyelids. First come the emotions, and then the reasons why, all trickling in to replace the memoryless and identityless haze of sleep.

Recalling the past 24 hours makes you realize how badly you want to be exactly where you already are - safe in Jane's arms.

No, not already - _still_. You're still on her chest, she's still holding you just the same as last night... she never let you go at all. The amount of love in her smile and her voice could almost disguise the fact that she never fell asleep.

Freshly traumatized, and you left her alone all night. She saved you and this is how you repaid her. It's not as if you had much choice, and it's not as if she'll hold it against you, but _damn_ it.

You won't fail her like that again.

"Feel like breakfast?"

You will not be pampered today. From now on you'll look after _her_ , like you should've done last night.

" _I_ want to make breakfast."

...

"Why did you take your bandages off?" you delay asking until the end of the meal.

"The tape's more annoying than the cut."

You'd prefer she kept the butterfly strips on her forehead for a little longer, but it's not worth an argument.

There is something else you want to ask, though. It's a rare to be able to have your curiosity satisfied, when usually all you can do is measure a wound and speculate about its origins.

"How'd you get that, anyway?" you ask, flicking your eyes up to her forehead.

"Headbutt."

You raise your brows.

"Badass."

This earns a little smile, one you wish wasn't hidden so soon by her coffee mug.

Yours fades when another thought occurs to you.

"You could have a concussion. How are you feeling?"

"They said I was fine."

"But without a CT scan or-"

"Maura. I'm fine."

You bite your tongue and finish the last bit of egg. It's overcooked due to the hug you had to give her in the kitchen just because you realized you were able.

"How's _your_ head, any better?"

Good question.

Physically, you're alright. Your thoughts are clear and your body obeys you again. But you're not at hundred percent, and annoyingly, you can't seem to diagnose which of your bodily systems is at fault. Just a sensation too pervasive to ignore but too vague to examine. You feel small and tired and odd and very glad Jane is with you, although you aren't going to describe all of this to her. Whatever you're feeling is a mere taste of what she's gone through. Surely you can handle that without whining and retreating to her arms every time an odd feeling strikes you.

She's strong. You're going to show her that you can be strong, too.

"Much. Thank you."

"Good."

"Our bandages will need changing today." You meant it casually, but it came out sounding apologetic.

Her eyes dart to your neck and away again, like they've been doing all morning. Like she's afraid of what's under these two white rectangles. She nods.

...

You make an odd discovery of two trash bags in your laundry room.

One contains a tangled mass of all the clothes you both wore yesterday, everything down to underwear and socks and pajamas. At the bottom are some other objects which you can't identify by their shape against the plastic.

In the other bag, folded neatly and presumably washed: the sheets and pillowcases you slept on last night, the throw she wrapped you in, the towels you bathed with.

Apparently you'll be discarding all these things. At least none were your favorit- Oh.

Did she do that on purpose? Choose familiar things, but not favorite things, because she already planned to get rid of them?

Maybe she knew that's the blanket that's your last choice to curl up with on movie nights, that you don't find that show amusing, that you don't care for that beverage. Maybe she didn't think you liked that t-shirt and maybe she even knew those were the pajamas you've been meaning to get rid of because they're a little too short on your ankles. What else? Even the ocean sounds? She has no special affinity for the ocean, and neither do you.

Some of that makes sense; some you don't see the point. You're not donating the ocean to Goodwill.

"That dress was new," you point out, noticing it in the bag that is presumably to throw away. "I could have it cleaned and donate it."

"There's blood on it."

What she really means is that it's haunted, like its next owner would somehow inherit this evening. And the more you think about it, the more you would like to avoid wearing a dress someone else was nearly murdered in, and so probably would most people.

She's right.

You spot a swatch of blue.

"What about this?" you ask, pulling your cookie shirt out by its sleeve, wondering what her objection is to it. It isn't stained or irredeemably dirty, and you didn't almost die in it. Same with the sheets and other things in these bags. You don't understand the distinction.

"We'll survive without it."

"But you got it for me," you say sadly.

"You're not a t-shirty kind of girl," she half-smiles.

"But you got it for me," you repeat. No, you didn't _love_ it, and no you're _not_ a t-shirty girl, but you love that she gave it to you, and you'll never forget her helping you pull it over yourself and kissing your head when it popped through. "I can't keep it?"

"F'you want," she shrugs.

"Are you going to call your mom?" you ask of the phone in her hand.

If Angela hears about last night on the news before she hears it from Jane, you're both going to be grounded.

"Just about to."

You can count a few kinds of weariness in the way her blinks last a fraction of a second too long.

The sight of her brings out dueling feelings of protection and protectiveness in you. Your personal superhero you could swoon over, but whom you also want to swaddle like a baby. She's going to sleep in your arms tonight. Or maybe this afternoon.

You're very glad Jane's lieutenant has given her the rest of the week off, and you're both looking forward to doing absolutely nothing during that time than be close to each other.

"Couch after?"

She smiles gratefully and nods.

...

"Any pain?"

"Not really." She leans toward the bathroom mirror and gingerly removes the bandage from her neck.

"Oh. Not as bad as I thought," you remark, pleased. "May I see?"

Clasped hands behind your back promise just looking, no touching. She angles her head slightly for you.

Though you hate that there's an incision at all, at least it's small and thin. About the same length and shape and angle as the old one only slightly higher, it looks almost like the old one is the new one's shadow.

"Quite clean, looks superficial.. healing nicely.. in fact I don't think you even need another bandage, unless you'd prefer to."

"Nah. Had worse," she pronounces flatly, eyeing it again in the mirror. You're glad she seems nonplussed.

"Yeah. Would you mind helping with mine?"

Brown eyes go big again, darting to your throat.

"Y- oh. Kay. You need me to um, take it off, or?"

"No, but it's kind of an odd angle to apply the new bandage," you gesture at the mirror.

Really you'd have no trouble doing it yourself, but you think it'd be good for her to face this before it becomes a psychological obstacle for her.

"Oh. Yeah, sure."

"You don't _have_ to," you add, watching her rub her palms on her pants.

"No, I, it's fine. Does it hurt?"

"Not really."

Adding no further buildup, you find the corner of your bandage and pull it away, not letting your face show when the tug at sensitive skin does hurt a little. New cool air flows over the spot.

"Oh." The wound you see in the mirror is so minor that you're embarrassed you ever thought it could be fatal. A little longer and deeper than Jane's, it does warrant another bandage, but is just as clean and should heal fast.

"Not bad, either. Probably a few more day-"

"Yeahthatlooksokay."

Jane's reflection is staring at the sink, and so pale that you're startled.

"Oh- honey, why don't you go lie d-"

"M'fine, so y'wantme to just..?" she asks, peeling a new bandage and raising it in your direction with unseeing eyes. Like she's going to play pin the tail on the donkey before she faints.

"You need-" you move to help her as she reaches for the floor. "Okay. That's okay."

"No, that's.. m'fine," she insists, getting down awkwardly on one knee, not wanting to admit what's happening. "You're fine."

"Okay."

This is a surprise.

This woman has processed truly gruesome crime scenes without batting an eye. Stepped over pools of blood while discussing baseball scores. Seen _actual_ slit throats on your autopsy table, ones with the spinal column exposed. The possibility of vasovagal syncope in response to a small pink line on your neck did not even occur to you.

"Why don't you put your head down?"

"I'm fine," she insists with closed eyes.

"I know," you sit by her, pulling lightly on her shoulder. "I'd just like you to breathe-"

"I am breathing. Been breathing for years."

"Yes, but you'd feel better if you put your head down while you breathe. Come here." You pat your leg, offering it as a pillow.

"Don't need to," she refuses, but complies.

Instead of laying on her side like anyone would, she ends up in a reluctant sort of Child's Pose, with her legs folded up under her and her forehead on your thigh. She could be much more comfortable if not for her pride, but you suppose this is close enough.

"Well, I'd like you to do it anyway," you comb up her scattered hair with your fingers and gather it to one side. "Just for a minute. Doctor's orders."

"Mmmhmmm."

You smile down at her, not sure you should be finding this kind of endearing.

"Ion't have a concussion."

"Okay. Just breathe deeply, okay?"

It isn't squeamishness that has Boston's finest homicide detective crumpled on your bathroom floor, and not a concussion either. This is an emotional response. She can't take the idea of you suffering.

For a few minutes, you just keep a hand moving gently on her back.

"How bad did it hurt," a small voice by your leg asks.

"Not as much as I expected," you're able to answer honestly.

A big inhale.

"I'm fine now, darling," you tell her gently. "I'm not in pain. I'm not suffering."

"You're fine," she hums.

"I'm sorry. I thought you'd feel better seeing that I'm okay."

"There- oh." She finds the bandage still clutched in her hand. "I stickied the sticky."

"That's okay," you take it from her. "We're well stocked."

"Okay," she sighs, starting to stir. "I can help now."

"You don't need to. Wait, take your time-"

"I'm fine."

"At least sit up slowly," you insist, watching her raise herself up halfway. Long lashes blink, acclimating without looking at you yet.

You can only imagine what kind of mental image she must have of you laying there, bleeding and unconscious. Maybe you looked dead. Hoping to overwrite that, you flash a double thumbs-up and your goofiest smile as soon as she risks another look at you.

She smiles sideways and closes her eyes again.

"Nobody, um, needs to know about this."

"I wouldn't tell anyone," you promise. "Not even Detective Frost."

For that you get a don't-you-dare smile, and you allow yourself to chuckle.

"Go relax, Jane. You really don't need to help. I only thought it would be good for you to see..."

"I know that. It _is_ good for me. I want to help."

You both stay sitting on the floor to do it, and she still doesn't have all the color back in her face, but somehow she does it. She follows your instructions and cleans the wound, murmuring "you're fine" throughout, which you're sure is for her own reassurance. You smile reassuringly every time her eyes check yours. The moisture in yours doesn't go unnoticed.

"Am I hurting you?" she freezes.

"No," you answer softly. "Not at all. You're very gentle."

Relieved, she shares in the particular softness of your smile.

There's something about the extreme gentleness of her touch at that spot. It's not quite arousing.. no, it is. Just not in a directly sexual way. It makes you want her to touch you like that everywhere. Gently and lovingly and everywhere. If only you were sure where things stand, and if she seemed up to it physically, you would initiate something.

Applying the new bandage seems to be her favorite part.

"Heal," she whispers to it, leaning her forehead against your cheek for a moment. To your surprise, she presses one small kiss to the fresh white gauze - then checks your eyes, like that surprised her too, and she wants to see if you thought it was weird.

All your eyes are saying is that that made you a little wet even if it wasn't supposed to, and you want her to make very soft love to you until you're fully crying, and that it can happen here on the tile floor right now if she wants.

She doesn't pick up on it, or isn't in the mood, or doesn't approve of the reaction. And you can understand that. It's too close to Hoyt, and you can't bring him into bed.

Nothing is going to happen today.

"Thank you." You touch your lips to her cheekbone.

* * *

It's like the days were out of order.

The way she brought you home that first night, it's like Jane was barely fazed. Battle-scarred but whole and solid and concerned only about you.

Starting with the second night, it's more like what you expected. She hasn't shattered like she could've, but there are stress fractures just under her surface. If you listen carefully at night you can almost imagine you hear them, like the little scratchy icy noise of a crack inching across a pane of glass.

When she falls asleep against you on the couch, you don't have the heart to wake her, so that's where you both stay the night.

Days are okay, but she's too alert at night. When she does sleep, it's a shallow and sweaty and twitchy kind.

What gnaws a hole in your chest is that your usual methods don't seem to help. Your mere presence used to comfort her to sleep. It doesn't now, nor does cradling her, or stroking her hair, or anything else. Maybe it is _some_ comfort, but it's not a cure. That hurts, even if you know it's an unfair weight to put on your own shoulders. Anxiety and post traumatic stress are not simple worries that can be cured by cuddles and reassurances.

The monster is slain, but its wounds are still fresh and its scars will never fully disappear.

She spends only minutes at a time in bed. You learn not to hold her too tightly because she's going to want to get up. Sometimes she comes back in a little while with wet eyelashes and one cup of tea, for you.

Sometimes she paces the hall. You learn that it's better just to wait until she tires herself out, to be ready with a cool washcloth and breathing exercises and soft words. To offer to watch something instead of going right back to sleep.

You learn to angle yourself so that she can't give you a back or foot rub as some apologetic payment for sitting on the couch with her. To open your arms first so you get dibs on holding her, otherwise she'll try to hold you.

You don't have to be told not to lean over her anymore - not the way she worked so hard to be okay with. You learn to make yourself lower and smaller and not scary and not illogically heartbroken that she could think you're anything to be scared of. It's not _you_. It's just that in those .04 seconds between opening her eyes and being fully conscious, you could be anyone.

You learn that she needs that bottle of pepto bismol to stay on her nightstand even if she doesn't actually take any, and she gets upset if you put it away.

You learn to sense that you're being watched, although she does such a good job that sometimes you question whether you're imagining it. You can feel her eyes on you in the dark when she thinks you're asleep. Sometimes at home you'll look up and sense that she's just left an empty doorway. Once back to work, you'll catch a shadow grazing the blinds of the morgue window when she's not even supposed to be on your floor.

She's checking on you, and it's for herself. It's sweet and slightly creepy. She'll stop after a while, probably, without it needing to be mentioned.

You aren't unaffected either.

Dreaming of Hoyt isn't a nightly sentence, but you have a couple of times. They've been mild, but still leave a lingering residue in your mind and mood.

One was only sounds, which you didn't recognize in the moment. One a dry rattle like something venomous you tried to inch away from but couldn't, like you were something small and weak fluttering helplessly in a web. But then there was something stronger, something that sounded like authority and honey and anger, but you weren't afraid of it. The first thing seemed afraid of the second thing, and it dissolved like a pest shooed away.

You shivered as you woke up, swatting at the tickle on your neck that you thought was a spider, and getting a sting of pain from under your bandage in return.

Jane was there at your side, but you didn't say anything. Why bother her for comfort when she's likely facing more vivid horrors in her own subconscious.

She was awake enough to tighten her arm around you, just like she would have done if you told her you'd dreamed. And that was comforting enough.


	31. Heartbeat

**I don't say it enough, but thank you for each and every review. Writing this is a roller coaster and it helps to know I'm not the only one riding.**

* * *

At 1:30AM you sigh and throw back the covers, deciding to find out why the other half of the bed is still empty.

She's still downstairs sitting on the couch with her laptop on her lap, she and the computer both asleep.

"Come to bed, Jane."

She startles slightly. You're sorry.

"What?"

"Come to bed."

"N'aminute," she blinks herself awake. "I'm almost finished. Don't want the light to bother you."

"That's what you said three hours ago. You need your sleep."

"It hasn't-" she squints toward the clock. "Oh. Shit, I must've... sorry." She rubs her face hard. "I'll be right up."

You haven't _asked_ not to be left alone, but she seems to be making a point of it. Secretly you're grateful.

"Okay."

But you pause after only one step, debating whether to actually go back to bed. Not that you're snooping, but when the computer wakes up you can't help but notice the open tab is a blank google homepage.

It's something about bed. She doesn't seem to want to spend a proper night in bed with you. She's accidentally fallen asleep on the couch too many times. If she does get in bed, she gets back out before long and paces, or disappears into the bathroom. She's always in the bed _room_ when you wake up in the morning, but not in bed next to you.

You're starting to catch glimpses of that old haunted look again in heavy eyelids and sharp cheekbones.

Reconsidering, you come back around and sit down on the very end of the couch.

"We don't have to touch or anything..."

She looks over.

"Huh?"

"If I'm the reason you don't want to come to bed."

"No," she frowns at you, then away. "It's not you."

An elaboration never comes.

You do doubt it's personal. The best hypothesis you've come up with is that she needs space, but her sense of duty to you won't allow it. She'll drop anything to do whatever you ask, but leaves very little room for you to do anything for her.

Maybe you should have gone to sleep and let her be. You don't want to invade her space.

It's possible that she's come to associate you with her trauma. You and Hoyt were always separate and opposite - poison and antidote. Now perhaps this shared experience has contaminated you for her, and you've lost your potency, or maybe even become part of the problem.

You could break down crying at how badly that idea hurts. And at how badly you miss the closeness of that night you slept in her arms. The latter is on you, though. She would hold you like that again. You haven't been allowing it. You cannot be taking, taking, taking comfort from this woman who's in desperate need of it herself, even if she's too proud to admit it.

"I know, but.. it could be like old times, if that's what you need," you piece the silence again. "I can stay on my own side of the bed. Or there's the guest room, or if you needed to go to your apartment-"

You stop when a momentary look of fear passes over her features. Although she masks it fairly well, her breathing pattern definitely changes.

"I will if you want me to." The amount of bravery it takes her to say this hurts you. Like it's the gallows you suggested rather than her home, and she'd go with a stiff upper lip.

"I don't _want_ you to. I just mean I'd understand if that's what _you_ w-"

"Then I don't want to," she shakes her head, voice a little thick and fast. "I don't want to sleep there alone again ever."

The next thing you say comes out with zero planning, and such assurance that it's an order instead of a request.

"Then don't. Move in with me."

Her eyes shut. Shutting out your words, or holding them in? You can't tell for a tense few seconds until the corners of her mouth give it away.

"I already live here. Haven't you noticed?"

You smile.

Living together wouldn't be a huge leap. Most of her clothes and regularly-used belongings have accumulated here already, and she stays every night with very rare exception. You spend ten nights at your house to every one at her apartment, and that's only to shave time off your commute when you're tired. The last time she spent a night there alone was over a month ago.

"Don't you want to think before you say a thing like that?" Her tone isn't like you've overstepped. It's like she doesn't want to get her hopes up. Like you might not have meant that.

"I already know I'd love to share a home with you. I've been having to remind myself that I don't already." You search her face. "Would you like that?"

She scoots closer to put her arms around you, very hard, nodding against your shoulder. It's not very much like a relationship-milestone hug. There's something desperate in it. It makes you think of the hug you wanted to give her for saving your life. You're at a loss to explain why. But you grin a great big grin against her hair, not only at her answer but at the feeling of holding her tight.

There will be a lot of details to discuss, but they can wait.

"Is it the bed itself?" you guess, emboldened enough to dust off your original topic. "The bedroom? The dark?"

She pulls back, letting out a breath.

"Laying down freaks me out."

You blink. Is that it?

"Seems like the worst moments of my life have involved being flat on my back. And some of the best," she adds, smiling halfheartedly for your benefit. "But those aren't the thoughts that are intrusive."

"It feels too vulnerable." You can still picture her eyes when she was pinned on that infirmary cot. The one and only time you've ever seen her eyes look like that. "Even with no one else near you?"

She nods.

"What about on your side?"

"It..." she rolls one shoulder. "I don't want to."

"Okay."

You should have been able to figure this out yourself.

"Did you not want to tell me that?" you ask gently. "Why've you kept getting in bed at all if it makes you anxious?"

"Wanted to be close to you," she shrugs at her lap, and you absolutely _have_ to touch her for that, so you make an affectionate and completely unnecessary adjustment to her hair. "I wanted to get over it before it turned into something that needed talking about."

"So you just want to sleep sitting up? That's why you keep falling asleep on the couch instead of bed?"

She nods.

"So you aren't down here because you want space."

"N-" She pulls her whole head back an inch. "Huh? No."

"Then I'm going to go get our pillows."

"No," she grabs for your arm when you get up. "I should go in there. I can't just never go to bed again. I'm gonna have to get over it."

"You _will_ conquer that, just like you've conquered so many other things. Maybe we can think of a way to work on it together. But for right now, it's okay to just do what you can manage. You _need_ sleep, any way you can get it. I'll be right back."

"I don't want you to sleep here again," she protests when you return with your arms full of pillows and duvet. "And you should've woken me up the other night. Just 'cause I fell asleep on you didn't mean you had to stay all night and hurt your back."

"Bats sleep hanging upside down. Horses and elephants can sleep standing up. It's theorized that albatrosses can even take short naps in mid-flight." You throw the duvet over her legs. "I can certainly sleep on my couch if it means being with you."

Finally she stays silent, just fixing you with those big eyes full of sleepy affection and guilty gratitude.

You slide in next to her and pull her over and tuck her head under yours. The positioning of your bodies and arrangement of the pillows is going to take some figuring out, but it's worth it to be close to her.

"Every time I hear..."

There's so long a pause you wonder if you should even prompt her.

"Hear what?"

"I almost slept on your doorstep that one time."

"What?" you frown.

"Only reason I didn't was it would've been even more embarrassing if you found me in the morning and had to call an ambulance. I was out there an hour trying to ring the bell. I threw up in your roses."

"Oh, Jane." There's only one night this could be. "Darling, I wish you'd have come right in. I wished you never left at all."

"I was disgusting and I couldn't even look at you. But you took me in and let me sleep right on your heart." This is the sentence that sounds like it brings her nearest to tears, but she recovers.

"You were never disgusting." She didn't seem to have showered terribly recently; you remember that, not that it mattered. But you don't know if that's what she means.

You hug her tighter, wondering if she can hear your heartbeat thudding with extra ardor now at the memory.

"I think I said your name. Before I fell asleep. Y'remember if you heard?"

Your tiny, tiny name. From what level of her consciousness, you didn't know.

"I heard."

"That was me falling in love with you."

You kiss her head. It's not enough, so you do it again.

"And you heard my heartbeat?"

"M-hm."

"That was me loving you back. Just like now. Hear it?"

She nods against your chest, arm around your middle tightening slightly.

Does the sound of a heartbeat stir affection in everyone? Is it a universal trait, a function of hormones and receptors and mammalian instinct, or is it noteworthy that you and she have it in common? Does it matter?

"W'you do that thing with my neck?"

Your hand goes to the base of her skull and massages there experimentally.

"This?"

The small sigh that comes out against your collarbone is all the answer you need.

"Sleep, Jane," you murmur. "I'm here."

* * *

You sought another Rizzoli opinion on which would be more desirable: the underutilized spare room next to your office, or the basement. Tommy said a basement is cooler, and helped clear it out so that the already-empty space would be a surprise to Jane.

Now it's a stem cell. Undifferentiated. She doesn't have much need for an office, nor a bedroom. But since you won't be integrating a significant amount of her furniture or decor into your house, you wanted her to have a space all her own. Somewhere she could go if she wanted to be away from you for any reason, now that she won't have her apartment to retreat to. She didn't ask for that, but you think it's important, and you think she likes it even if she isn't sure what to do with it yet.

For the time being, it's just where you're putting all these cardboard boxes.

Even knowing a blank canvas awaits her, there is actually very little from her apartment she decides to keep. Mostly small things: clothes, books, keepsakes, sports equipment, pictures from the walls, an heirloom muffin tin you've never seen her use.

Not being the one to make executive decisions about what to keep, discard, or sell, you don't feel very helpful, but she seems to appreciate your company in the apartment.

Standing in that sparse living room knocks the wind out of you like you don't expect. Every inch of it holds memories of the enigma you first cautiously befriended here. Someone way too guarded, too prickly to get close to; too cool to ever accept you as more than a colleague. But someone you felt a crystal clear, if inexplicable, desire to protect and to know better. In some ways, you can't believe it's the same woman. But then, in some ways she's identical.

"Found two more mystery cords, and another blessing for the Saturday morning pedestrians of Boston." She hands you a tacky photo frame, obviously a bad acquaintance gift from some forgotten occasion, to add to the 'sidewalk sale' pile. "Tomorr- you okay?"

"Yeah. I just suddenly realized how much I'm going to miss this apartment," you admit, looking around, imagining the two of you inhabiting this space during countless days past. "I remember the first times I ever visited... being so excited to make a friend. All the meals we shared sitting on those stools... all the things we laughed about, things we confided in each other. You used to have a dartboard there. And I used to sit on this couch wondering if someday you might ever accidentally lean a little to the side while you were napping and rest against my shoulder."

She smiles warmly.

"I used to sit there trying to think of an excuse to call you. A friend reason, not a work reason," she adds. "And over there's the dent in the floor where we kissed and spilled that can of tomato sauce. And that time your earring fell off under this bookshelf and you were gonna get it but I shoved you out of the way 'cause I was embarrassed how dusty it probably was under there and you thought I was insane."

"I thought you were being gallant reaching it for me," you laugh. "You only ever lit this fireplace a couple of times."

"We could right now," she suggests. "Could stay here tonight? Order some Chinese to eat on these wobbly ass stools and listen to my neighbors stomping around, just for old times' sake?"

Half of you jumps at that idea. Only half. You guess you'd prefer to forge a new memory in the home you're going to be sharing together, rather than the one you're saying goodbye to.

"We don't have our overnight things with us," you point out, and she doesn't press it.

She follows you to the doorway of her bedroom, which is empty now save for its namesake.

"This is where you made love to me for the first time," emotion constricting your throat a little. It wasn't even that long ago, but it feels like another lifetime.

It's not until you've said that, that you figure out the real reason for not wanting to forge an intentional last memory here. You would wish it involved her making love to you here one more time.

Adding, "Remember?" is the closest you can bring yourself to broaching that idea when you already know she doesn't seem ready.

"Like I could ever forget." She links her arms around you from behind, kissing the side of your head. "Everything I'm gonna miss about this place is stuff involving you."

You turn in her arms and touch your nose and lips to her cheekbone. Something has snuck up on you. You're going to cry, or start something, or say something.

You need for her is growing, in a way you never quite have needed her before. It isn't _about_ sex, but sex is the only medium that will do. But that's not something you can just come out and ask for; it's something she has to feel, too. It's only been a matter of days since you last made love, anyway. Before Hoyt and After Hoyt feel like two distinct eras.

Kissing her would be fair, but then where would that leave you? Wanting more? Spare her explaining that she needs time. Do yourself the favor of _not_ driving back home wet.

If you clench your jaw, you can stop your mouth from begging her, but it's harder to stop your eyes. She can always read your eyes.

"Do you have everything from the closet?" you ask, turning away to pick up the last box.

* * *

The comings and goings make the perfect camouflage for the delivery of another surprise Jane would've said no to if you asked first.

You bring her up to the bedroom and present the new recliner with a flourish of both hands.

"Voila!"

"The couch had a baby?"

"It's the best compromise I could think of. I almost bought two regular ones so we could be side by side, but then I thought an extra wide model we could both fit in might be nice, in case you felt like company sometimes. And when you don't, it's right here so we can still be close. I did a lot of research to find one well-reviewed by people who like to sleep in it, and it's quiet and they didn't have the massage feature in the wide model unfortunately, but it does have heating, I thought that-"

"How much did this cost?" she interrupts your excited rambling, touching the upholstery.

"That's not important. What's important is for you to have a place where you feel safe to sleep."

"You bought this for me?" She looks from eye to eye. "Just because I said I don't want to lie down?"

"Yes."

"That was _really_ sweet of you." She combs her hair back, taking in the idea. "But you didn't have to do this.. I mean, the couch is free. And I don't plan on being like that for more than a while.."

"But the couch is downstairs and has inadequate lumbar support, although it'll still be down there if that's what you want. And I know you won't feel that way forever. But why must either of us have to choose between being comfortable and being together, even temporarily?"

She sighs at you, torn. Like saying thank you would be agreeing that she's worthy of the expense.

"Go on," you urge with a grin. "See if you like it."

She turns around and settles in, looking like she'd like to announce that it's awful and you should return it. There's a nearly-silent electronic hum and her feet rise, tipping her back just slightly.

"This is... nice," she smiles a little reluctantly. "Really nice, actually."

"It's yours. I'll join you here any time you like. But it's your space. Okay?"

"Join me, then."

Taking her hand, you sink into the chair next to her.

Her hand extends out to the tiny end table you've placed beside it. Earlier, you stocked it with books, water, an extra charger, a blanket, pepto, a bowl with a washcloth. Then you took it all back out, not wanting to look like you were forcing this.

"So you think it's comfortable? _I_ thought so, but then again, I'm shorter. We can always go try out some different ones and exchan-"

"Maura." She smiles, quieting you with a touch. "It's beyond great. I don't know what to say... you're incredible. Thank you."

She kisses you. You cup her jaw, prolonging it.

"You're welcome."

"Will you sleep with me here tonight?"

You grin, resting your head on her shoulder.

"Of course."


	32. What do you want from me (tw)

**Please forgive if the next couple chapters are longish, going to try to get this part out in 2 instead of 3. Tw here for rape mention.**

* * *

It's the short one making you nervous. The other faces are familiar, but you don't think you know his. Is he looking at you too often?

Right now it's only you, Jane, a photographer and a couple of evidence technicians in the vicinity. Such personnel are a crucial presence at every crime scene. But are all of _these_ really what their uniforms promise? Do you know for sure? Would you be able to get away if they weren't?

See how Jane is behaving? Not nervous. Totally professional. She's on the phone with Frost, but she'd hang up instantly if you let your face say you're uncomfortable. (You don't.)

 _She's_ the one who's survived a living nightmare. Been hunted, tortured, violated on so many levels, had psychological wounds torn back open again and again, had her life shattered in ways that have still not healed.

And you - what? You got a little cut on your neck that you can already cover with makeup? You felt afraid for several minutes?

Next to her, you barely know fear.

There are heavy footsteps you would've identified even without looking up sharply.

It's Korsak with the short man in tow, introducing you. You're the best at what you do, and his name is Darrell and it's his first week and he used to be on the force in Minneapolis, or did he say Milwaukee? Why is he telling you this? Darrell puts on a smile which you're glad to see matches yours - polite confusion about why you're meeting - and you exchange a deferred handshake gesture so you don't both have to change your gloves.

Okay, well, that was... friendly.

Now, focus. Finish up with this body and you can all get moving.

* * *

A drink of water is your reason for coming downstairs. Not looking for Jane.

One light in the kitchen is on. One beer bottle sits at the head of the table, and beside it, a thin red spiral notebook that looks to have been folded tightly in half. The crease makes it refuse to lie flat on the table, like someone sitting up expectantly.

You examine this curiously from several feet away, moving to the refrigerator instead.

She must be in the basement. Not that you meant it to be some forbidden Jane-only zone, but going in there after her uninvited in the middle of the night might be a tad intrusive.

"Can't sleep?"

You whirl, feeling caught because of that notebook, even though you hadn't even planned on going near it.

"I got thirsty."

"Me too," she says quietly from the basement doorway. Like there's anyone else in the house to whisper for. "Just sorting through some of my crap."

 _Can I help?_ _Were you wishing I'd come keep you company and hold you and rub your neck like you like? Were you hoping I'd stay asleep and that I wouldn't come down and talk to you every time you're up?_

Something makes her launch into sudden motion, coming over to get a glass and fill it for you. Is she being helpful or are you supposed to take it like _here's what you came for, now go_? You drink while trying to decide.

"Maura?"

You look up.

"Are you okay?"

"What? Yes."

It's slightly too dim to tell if you're looking at or just near each other. The overhead light shows you just the outline of her hair like a weak halo.

"'Kay."

"Are you? Would you like company?"

"You should go to sleep," she gives your arm a short squeeze and then pads away to the kitchen table, filling the only chair that's pulled out. Her back to you.

At face value her response was clear, but you haven't budged. Wondering if the pause before her answer was important. Whether to double down on the opposite action even after being answered plainly.

"Was that not exactly a no?"

She lets the ghost of a laugh out her nostrils, and you come over to the table where you can sort of see each other again. She reminds you of that day you saw her holed up in that secret little supply room in the bowels of BPD. Quiet from a too-full mind. Throat tight, predominant emotion undecided.

"I'm in some kind of mood... if you stay I'm gonna talk to you about shit you don't spring on somebody at 3AM. So really, you can go back to bed."

"It's not springing if I came in here."

She takes a drink from her half-empty beer, eyeing you for a minute. Another chair scoots out and because you're drowsy you think, for a fraction of a second, that she did it by telekinetic willpower instead of with her foot.

You take the seat and watch her roll the bottom rim of her bottle back and forth on the table for some time in silence. Presumably deciding which of her thoughts to capture as the first she will voice. Your neck tingles like before an interview.

"D'you think you'd have liked me if I was something other than a cop? Do you ever wish I was... I don't know, an accountant or something. Somebody with no danger, no baggage. Somebody nothing much ever happened to. Do you ever wish I was just... normal."

Her talents would be wasted on accounting, but that's not the point. You move your water glass, as if that's what's standing in the way of your knowing what to say.

"You _are_ normal."

"You know what I mean." She stares down at the notebook. Now doesn't seem like the right moment to ask what it is.

"Whatever you're like," you answer carefully, "that's what I love."

Her eyes climb up to yours, and you don't know why, but you don't like it when they arrive. That's never happened before. She looks at you, expressionless as far as you can tell, and without blinking for an uncomfortably long time.

This could be how she unravels people in interrogation rooms with just a look. But what is your crime?

"You say all the right things."

"That doesn't always feel true," you reply quietly.

Maybe she's not doing it intentionally. Or at all. Maybe your vision is simply playing tricks on you in the dim light. Maybe she's just tired and you're just overly sensitive.

"You scare the hell out of me. From day one."

Surprise opens your mouth.

"What?" you ask. "How?"

In her silence you search her expression for a clue, but you doubt it would reveal anything to you even in good lighting.

"Sometimes I used to worry you were an undercover therapist my mom hired to fix me," she says, taking a rubber band from the neck of her bottle and stretching it between her fingers. "But she can't afford that."

You would force a laugh, except that she doesn't look like that was a joke.

"Sometimes I'd worry I was drooling in a psych ward someplace and you were just something my brain made up." She looks at you like she's scrutinizing your features rather than the whole of you, like she truly might catch an error. "I still look at you once in a while and..." her tired voice turns sideways and slips into a whisper. "I really don't know how I'd tell."

You don't like this line of thought.

"There is a third option," you remind her. "That I'm a real human being who genuinely loves you as a result of her own free will."

She says something barely loud enough for you to pick out the words "scariest option".

"Why?"

You just hear her breathing, and when you hear her voice again, you know the pause was because she's trying not to cry.

"You were gonna suffer for it." One eye catches a glint from the window and disappears again. "I was gonna die wishing you never loved me. Never met me."

You sigh, trying to get ahead of her reasoning.

"Hoyt killed people in Massachusetts. I'm the M.E. Our paths would've crossed even if you didn't exist."

"Not like this." She sniffs. "You wouldn't have gone into that prison with some random colleague, you just didn't want me to face him alone. You were only there because you love me and your reward..." she exhales hard.

"Correlation is not causation." That's not nearly a good enough thing to say here, but you can't think of anything else in time.

"I know. But the correlation alone hurts. You don't deserve... nobody _deserves_ that. But not you."

Whatever was making you uneasy about her a moment ago, fear has caused it to melt into something more accessible, and you feel guilty for preferring it.

"Was he going to rape me?"

You don't see any reaction.

"I don't know," she says finally, and you wonder whether she's protecting you. "But.."

"What?"

She tries to shrug it away.

"Tell me."

She exhales.

"Few seconds left on the clock, zero consequences.. me watching..." she swallows. "You were gonna be his grand finale."

She leaves you room to reply, but you don't think of one in time.

"He'd make me watch you suffer for a while but he'd kill me first. It'd be worse to die knowing it still isn't over for you.. that you're getting left alone with him. And he'd know that. He knows how to choose what's worst."

" _Knew._ Past tense for the dead," you murmur, trying to match her detached manner, because you don't really know how else to act.

"I don't even know what he was gonna do. Or could do, or had the time or the tools to do. But I do know you were gonna be the absolute worst thing he ever did. Just for me."

 _Tools._

Images flash through your mind of grooves carved into bone, of teeth scattering onto your exam table. You shiver. At the time, you were so occupied with death that somehow you forgot to be afraid of torture.

"I'll be grateful to you every day of my life for saving me from that," you say in a small voice. "I honestly don't know how I could ever begin to thank you."

She crosses her arms on the table and lays her head down on them. Then sends one hand over to you instead, palm up. You don't know whether she's asking you to rub her scar, but that's what you do for a minute.

"Don't hide."

"Hm?"

She closes her fingers around your thumb. Rather, her index and pinky. The middle two on that hand don't close all the way.

"Don't need any thanks. I just want you not to hide from me. What's going on, Maur?" Soft concern tinged with sadness. Your Jane. You marvel at how different a person she is from the stranger who was here a few minutes ago. "Did I do something?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. You haven't wanted me to do any little thing for you ever since."

"You did absolutely everything imaginable for me-"

"For one night. Then I don't know what happened. I rub your back, you shrug me off. You don't want me to bring you food or carry your stuff. You've barely talked about what happened, and you don't dare ask me. You haven't tried to do more than kiss me even though sometimes I see you wanting to touch me, but then you just.. switch it off."

"When have I ever just pushed you into bed whenever I wanted you?" your mouth says on its own, and you worry it might make this a fight. "Don't I know you well enough to know you need time after what just happened?"

"Maybe I do, but... not pushing me into bed is one thing, acting like you have to hide your feelings altogether is another. Maybe you need time, too? I don't know. You haven't talked to me. That's what I'm saying." She sighs, stretching her neck. "I need to know... what you want from me, Maura."

"What?" you answer, taken aback. "I haven't made any demands of you."

On purpose, you haven't.

A tickle of righteous indignation almost makes you elaborate. You _almost_ feel justified to reach for your mental bookshelf and crack open the thick, dusty volume cataloging all the things you've never asked her for and never will. About how you never would've even touched her hand if she hadn't asked you to, and you'd still be only friends otherwise. About how a cardinal rule of your relationship has always been making sure you aren't pushing her comfort zone unless it's as a requested exercise.

"Exactly." It sounds like agreement more than argument, and that confuses you into closing your mouth.

You've gotten defensive too quickly and misread her tone.

"I don't understand."

"You don't hardly ask me for anything. Everything with us can't be all about me. Have _you_ been happy? Or just happy _I'm_ happy? What do couples do, women, and... do we do that? I mean, does this feel like other relationships have to you? Do we do all the stuff together you wish we did? Things and meals and places _you_ like? Sex stuff? Do we do it as often as you wish we would? And do I do it the way you like it and is it... enough? Or are you just happy we're doing anything at all? If there was something you wanted in bed, would you ever even ask me? Isn't there anything you wanted to talk about before we live together? Is everything going so perfect that... isn't there anything _you_ want from _me_? Even comfort?"

There's so much there that you can't choose which part to pick out first. Part of you is relieved when she doesn't really pause for you to address any of it yet.

"I see stuff bothering you and I _see_ you deciding not to tell me. This shit is hard, Maura, no matter how brilliant you are. I see the look on your face when somebody happens to stand between you and the doorway. I see you look around wondering if people are really what they look like. Getting nervous if it's just you and a couple strangers."

Something clicks. " _You_ had Korsak introduce-"

"I hear how you breathe in your sleep," she continues. "I hear you have a nightmare and then not even hold my hand, even when you know I'm awake. That _kills_ me."

"What makes you think I've.." You frown. "Is that what you're watching for in the dark? Have you been staying awake to wake me if I look like I'm having a nightmare?"

She finishes the last of her beer and rolls the empty bottle back and forth.

"Gives me something to do for you."

You aren't sure which reaction should take precedence - how that's a very selfless thing to do, or how it's terrible for her health.

"That.. that's very sweet. Please don't do it anymore."

She doesn't agree or refuse.

"I've only had a few, anyway," you add. "Minor ones."

Thankfully she replies "good" instead of "I know".

You sigh. She has not only seen through you, but been caring for you in ways you didn't even realize.

"Really. Please. Did I hover too much? Did I make you feel like you have to be perfect all the time? Did I make it look like I think you _need_ things done for you instead of just liking it?"

It's very late and you aren't good at concealing things. You'd better come clean. Just soften it, if you can.

"No," you sigh. "I didn't mean to make it look as if I was hiding anything from you. I just didn't see the need to.. to disturb you, when... well, compared with all that you..."

"Do you think I'd tell you you don't even _know_ fear?"

Your eyes dart to hers.

"What?"

"Do you think I own trauma and you're not allowed to borrow any? Do you think if you came to me and said 'Jane, I'm scared' that I'd think you were weak? Do you think I'm busy being upset about myself and you'd be bothering me if you wanted a little commiseration? Is that it?"

Her voice is only gentle, but the accuracy slices deep. You can't think of a way to say no when what you mean is maybe.

You have too many emotions and not enough stamina. You don't wish you hadn't started this conversation, but you would have been better equipped for it during the day.

You start crying.

"Do you think I might not hurt for you? It's _you_ I'm hurting for in the first place. I'm _right here_ , Maura," she scoots her chair closer so she can brush her fingers through your hair, and your heart leaps at the contact. "You're doing great but I know it bothers you. And I know back rubs and soup won't make it stop bothering you, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't be thrilled to do that stuff anyway."

Her softness has broken you faster than anger ever would've.

"I left you alone," you whisper, ashamed, to the table.

"Huh?"

"This was _your_ worst nightmare. And not only did _you_ save _me_ from it, you brought me home and wrapped me up and _carried_ me and help-" you lose control of your breathing at the memory of the smile she gave you as she rubbed warmth into your socked feet, which has become the cover of your mental photo album of that night. "You let _me_ s-sleep on _your_ heart. You held _me_ all night and you didn't sleep at all. I didn't help you or comfort you. You endured the same as me, plus so much more, worse and multiple times and all alone... _I_ should be the one comforting _you_."

She exhales a note of understanding rubs her face.

"You like my heartbeat, too?"

It isn't the route you expected, but you're glad she didn't miss it. You smile a little, wiping your eye.

"I love it."

"So do I. Comfort can be a two way street, Maur." She slips her hand into yours on the table. "Can we do that tonight?"

Part of you wants to say why doesn't _she_ sleep on _your_ heart. But you're out of energy to pretend there's any other place you'd like to lay your head. You nod.

"C'mon." She jiggles your hand slightly. "We can get a few more hours."

"Now? We're right in the middle of talking?"

"It'll all still be here tomorrow. Time out for now. Look," she pulls your hand to her chest. "It heard you might come visit and it's all excited."

Well, you can hardly disappoint it.

She leaves that notebook behind on the kitchen table when you get up, like it's not even a possibility that you might snoop. You love her for it.

When you climb into that chair and settle your head on her chest, she squeezes you and releases such a contented groan that you laugh out loud. And then you let out a sigh of your own, feeling more at peace than you have in days. She kisses your head.

"Can you hear it when I do that?"

You almost say yes too soon, thinking she means the kiss. But instead you smile at the tempo beneath your ear speeding up just a little for those few beats.

"Mhm. Look," you bring her hand to your chest. "Again."

And you can both feel the little dose of affection go through each other in sync when she does it again, like you share the same cardiovascular system. She loves that you love it. You can hear it in her smile in the dark.

For a while you think neither of you will get any sleep after all, playing with each others' hearts like this. Dropping kisses and I love yous and Mauras and Janes like pebbles in a pond just to watch the ripples. Waiting for the water to go smooth, then doing it again.

You marvel at the way she can make you feel more like a teenager than you ever did at sixteen.

...

"Sorry I was weird." A breakfast plate is placed in front of you and she sits across. The same two chairs you occupied a matter of hours ago, but entirely different now thanks to the best few hours of sleep you've both gotten in a while. You feel curiously good despite knowing you have a heavy talk to resume.

"You weren't. Direct, maybe. But that's good."

She smiles noncommittally and starts shoveling food into her mouth.

You wonder if she eats like that because she almost always oversleeps, or if it's instinct left over from family mealtimes. You can picture her as a child with band-aids on her knees and grass in her hair, wolfing down food before her brothers can steal any, eager to go back outside and play.

"I'mna go see Dr. Kline," she says through a mouthful, maybe with intentional casualness.

Your brows rise. Jane has never given a glowing review of the psychologist who saw her through her original encounter with Hoyt.

"Cavanaugh?" Despite the stress as she's been under, she's been flawlessly professional at work. You're surprised anyone's seen any reason to send her for psychological support.

"Nobody's making me," she shakes her head. "You're the only person I really talk to. Just 'cause you're good at it doesn't mean... I'm sorry I think I've accidentally cornered you into being my therapist. Maybe I've been a little too much your patient sometimes to be a very good girlfriend. I mean, if my crap takes precedence so much that you don't even feel entitled to be scared after what happened, then.. I need to step up and get it sorted out."

You're surprised, proud, and relieved - you would've suggested this yourself long ago, if you ever thought she might actually do it. At the same time, you are irrationally jealous and angry at yourself that you've given her a need to turn to someone else, especially someone she doesn't especially like. You suppose she would like re-explaining everything to a new doctor even less.

A reply comes slowly, stuck between praising her healthy decision and not wanting to make her feel badly by appearing too relieved.

"Well.. I'm proud of you, Jane. I don't agree that you're to blame for my misconceptions, but I think therapy is an excellent idea."

"If I've been acting like someone you could imagine feeling the way you thought, then I'm not blameless. Look, we'll talk more later. I just wanted you to know that.. I know there's stuff I need to work on, and I'm gonna. And I'm sure you have stuff to add to that list, and I want you to. So.. think about that in between corpses, okay?"

Your phones ring.


	33. The notebook (tw)

**Sheesh, talking chapters are my least favorite to write... I think this will be the last one, sorry it's long, but I wanted to get it all out. The good news is this is the last of the big angst I have planned, so after this I promise there will be more fluff!**

 **Minor warning here for some PTSD / anxiety stuff.**

* * *

"Right out of the carton?"

"What do you care if I double-dip? Or thousand dip. You don't like mocha brownie," she shrugs, having to set it on the counter to force her spoon into the hard ice cream. "Do you?"

"No, and milluple."

"Your what?"

"A thousand would be milluple-dipping. And it's just that portion control is trickier when eaten right out of the container."

"Someday I'm gonna eat an approved amount of something," she sighs, giving up and leaving the carton to sit, pointing at it threateningly. "Five minutes."

You smirk. She isn't going to remember.

"You know.. I would have dismissed a lot of what you said last night, had I replied on the spot. But I've been thinking, and.. you did raise some valid questions."

She looks grateful that you've been the one to start.

"When I was first getting to know you, you had walls up a mile high," you smile a little, thinking back. "You spoke so sparingly about yourself. You valued privacy, brevity, leaving things unsaid... and you liked when other people were that way. And then there was me: always talking, asking too many questions, wanting specifics, needing things defined. I used to try so hard to avoid asking you things, and hope you'd like me for it. I hoped you'd want to be my friend if I showed you I wouldn't push. If I could just.. learn to sense things, deal with things, figure them out quietly like you. Sometimes... that's still the way I think to approach you."

"I do like when people are like that. But you haven't been people for a long time." A soft frown overtakes her smile. "I'm sorry you felt like you had to stifle yourself. I still would've been your friend."

"Maybe more slowly." You lean against the counter.

"Maybe. But you're a scientist, asking questions is kinda your thing, I didn't hold that against you. Nobody dared ask me anything for a long time, and it was actually kind of nice that you did." She curls her index around your pinky. "Don't ever change yourself, okay? For anybody, including me."

"It sounds like there's a thing or two that could stand changing," you shrug, giving that finger a squeeze.

"Not _you_. Just... protocol," she scratches the back of her neck. "Sorry about being dramatic last night. It wasn't really fair to come at you about stuff I never actually told you I wanted to change."

"You did tell me, though, when this became a relationship," you shake your head. "Maybe if you've felt like a patient it's because I've been treating you like one. After all, I was the one who came to you offering things out of nowhere, as if I was some kind of therapist. I'm the one who made the ground rules that set this tone, and I'm the one who hasn't fully let go of them, even though we agreed to."

"We're both responsible," she raises her hands, not wanting to hear you taking blame. "Doesn't matter. Let's just both do better for each other."

You nod. "What do I do for you?"

"Just.. quit waiting patiently outside my wall when there's a you-shaped door," she smiles. "Say and ask iffy stuff. Lean on me. Tell me things you want even if you don't think I want them too. Touch me without asking. You don't need notarized written permission, okay? It's not game over if I have to say no to something."

You nod.

"And how about me? What's something you need?"

"What you already said applies to both of us," you shrug after a few moments of fruitless thought. You aren't very good at theoretical scenarios. "Why don't we both point out specific needs as they arise?"

"Mmkay.. you better not fake me out. I expect demands."

"Demands will be made," you assure her, smirking.

"Alright. Now c'mere," she motions you over to the couch and sits with you. "I want to make sure we're clear on this Hoyt stuff."

"I didn't really think you wouldn't care about me. I was just afraid it would be selfish or... insensitive to come to you expecting sympathy when.." you sigh. The reason you rushed to speak first is because you'd finally thought of a decent phrasing this afternoon, but now you can't remember it. "How could I ask you to shoulder my burden when yours is already heavier?"

"Being here for you is not a burden," she insists, taking your hands and leaning to find your eyes. "And you don't have to measure against me or anybody else to deserve sympathy or validation. I care what happens to you, no matter how big or small, okay? And I know you try not to touch any nerves, but can I be honest? It hurts way more to know you're thinking I'm too damaged to handle whatever you wanted to say. It breaks my heart to watch you decide to hide something from me."

"Ja-"

She shakes her head at your look of regret, like _no it's okay._

"I'm not saying pretend I don't have issues. I do, but that's not why you can't come to me. It's why you _can_." She takes a deep breath. "Hang on. I want to show you something."

She pats your knee, getting up and disappearing down the basement steps. You spend the minute or so that she's gone trying to decide whether you're excited. You've always liked that set of words.

"I never meant to keep this... just shoved it in a box and forgot..."

It's that red notebook. She sits back down next to you takes the rubber band off and straightens the fold so that it can be opened.

"What is that?"

She half-smirks, like she knows you hurried to get credit for asking that in the last second you possibly could've.

"I wrote some stuff after... y'know. It was never to show anybody. Wasn't even a journal, really, I just wrote whatever to exercise my hand, and some of what came out was..." she flips it open to a certain page and stares at it for a moment, chewing on her lip. Since she doesn't seem to be hiding it, you look as well.

Large, messy letters almost like that of a child stack " **Detective Jane Rizzoli Victor 825** " a dozen or more times in a row. You touch the page, feeling where her heaviest, most determined ballpoint strokes carved into the paper. The letters with which less care was taken are lighter, misshapen, oddly spaced, like they loosened from the paper and fell together when it wasn't held level.

"Oh," you whisper, chin already quivering at the pain visible in each letter.

"I've been wracking my brain for like two years trying to think how to tell you how grateful I am for you. And I mean all the way back to when I was just that weird coworker who kept falling asleep in your office. My thanks doesn't mean anything if you don't know what I'm thanking you for.. if you don't know how I was before you."

She offers it to you, and you receive it with both hands like a priceless artifact.

"It might not be totally... you don't have to read much. You'll get the jist."

You turn it over to the front of the next page, and at that moment, the author develops an urgent need to fool around with her phone.

"Ice cream," you remind her.

"Oh!" She goes back to the kitchen, delighted to have both a snack and something to occupy herself.

You take a breath.

 **1st mistake was going to bed in same clothes felt like a zombie too weak to shower & apt doesn't have tub**

 **Couldn't sleep b/ I kept smelling myself + even after shower, bed still smelled like that, Even after I washed sheets they still smelled like that. Spent night washing them 5 times then threw them out anyway**

 **everything smells like being so scared I might throw up**

 **can't afford new couch now keep spraying air freshener Still catch a whiff sometimes+ it turns me inside out**

 **Had to get rid of everything**

 **pillows from the couch most clothes blanket grandma knitted all sheets different mattress.** **switched soap deodorant perfume shampoo detergent  
changed everybody's ringtones stopped listening to music**

 **Had to get rid of all my favorite stuff I tried to comfort myself with b/ it ended up getting attached to that night**

 **Should not have gotten rid of blanket. Could have put it in ziplock in the closet Ma would have kept it. She'll kill me when she finds out. Tried to comfort myself too soon. Stupid. ruined too many things**

A very early memory comes to you of her at work, showing you what your ringtone was in her phone. She had put some thought into it. That's not been her ringtone for you for a long time.

You think of the new scents and different brands of products that have started appearing around the house, the little things that you haven't been able to find for a while. The unknown shapes at the bottom of that trash bag in your laundry room.

How she had hurried to get that blanket _under_ you on the couch when you first came home. That didn't strike you as odd until right now. And that she sat on the floor, on the coffee table, instead of on the couch with you. And threw her clothes on the tile floor instead of the hamper.

You catch yourself thinking that that smell you came home with had been unpleasant, but would not have bothered you like that. No. Maybe you have the luxury of thinking that because you have to concentrate to even remember it.

Jane probably doesn't know that the olfactory bulb has direct connections to the hippocampus and amygdala, but she still knows that smell is the sense strongest at triggering memories.

Twisting around, you can see your girlfriend half-sitting on a stool at the island, spooning out a sliver of ice cream. You smile softly at her back, wondering what else she's protected you from so well that you wouldn't even appreciate it.

 **Song at the end of kojak sounds like panic b/ it was bedtime hours ago but I can't go in there. start another episode. heineken tastes like am I even trying to get better? cheerios taste like oh god please let this stay down**

 **ears ringing have to sleep facing door & with sound on but not too loud to hear if somebody is breaking in. ruined every song + show + movie i tried to fall asleep to**

 **No vacuuming or running the water longer than 10 sec at a time have to stop + listen tv can't be louder than 11 notches**

 **Touch deadbolt every 10 min to make sure still locked sweep apt every time my eyes have been closed to make sure still empty. shaking so bad i would miss if there was anything to fire at**

 **Frankie "accidentally" falls asleep on couch + has to stay overnight once in a while he thinks it makes me feel safer. have to stay half awake to remember he's here so I don't accidentally shoot him or shit myself when I hear somebody in the kitchen**

 **Hands still look like shit**. **Right is worse can't make a fist with either. If I had to fight somebody would probably hurt myself worse**

 **Hurts to write thought therapy would hurt less bad by now. They said I can have plastic surgery later on yeah fucking right. Wear gloves outside. Gripped wrong + broke a bottle on the floor at grocery store today kid who cleaned it was cool didn't recognize me but I think the manager did. will go to different store for a while**

 **Pour cereal with gun in one hand if start crying pour the rest out b/ eating while crying makes me throw up**

 **Scrape off most of the food Ma made and put the plate back in the fridge with a little bit left so when she comes over it looks like I ate it she doesn't believe me if it's all gone.** **Wear at least 2 loose layers so everybody stops saying Jane you're not eating enough Jane you're too skinny**

"Jane?" You didn't realize you're crying until you hear your own voice.

"Hm?"

"I need to squeeze you in order to read the rest of this."

She comes and fits herself into your arms, and you hug her tightly before continuing to read behind her back.

 **Washed w/ bar of soap in kitchen sink for 2 months b/ too scared can't see the front door from shower**

 **Tore down shower curtain so I don't have to check behind it every time**

 **Cant stand in middle of room w/o feeling like he's behind me. Back to wall he's always here**

 **Pretend I'm scary maybe I don't have to be scared if i'm the scary one. why does he get to not feel fear? practice lurking around creepy in my own apt. if he does break in surprise jackass I'm the one behind** **you** **in the dark**

 **Can't stand all night have to sleep eventually wish there were two of me so we could take turns standing guard**

 **there is no guard stacked cans by the door + bubble wrap in the hallway are the guards**

 **it's nobody's job to watch my back**

You never considered while reminiscing about her apartment, that it held a vastly different set of memories for her.

How could you ever have let her sleep there alone? How did you used to save her from this on only a designated night or two per week, and how didn't she cling to your leg and cry not to go back?

You kiss her head for strength.

 **only way I can fall asleep is by not being able to stay awake any longer wont take pills feeling groggy is worse**

 **Can't work if I don't sleep Korsak says it doesn't matter if I fake it to get back to work sooner b/they'll make me go back to the hospital if they can tell I'm still fucked. Don't know how to tell him I have to have a new partner**

 **scared to close my eyes fall asleep crying b/ I know what my dreams are going to be+ I don't have a choice**

 **Start every day w/ panic attack See him over me every time I wake up. don't remember what it feels like for heart not to be pounding too hard to eat breakfast**

 **how can you be sweaty hot+ sickly freezing cold at the same time can you have the flu for 10 months?**

 **so tired achy frustrated all the time**

 **is it crazy to talk to an imaginary friend + how crazy do you have to go before they talk back?**

Your eyes scour this line five times, matching it to last night. To that blank, skeptical look that unnerved you. You wonder how many times she's looked at you that way without you knowing. Afraid you were a coping mechanism come to life.

 **being a bitch to everyone so lonely I could scream even though people are here keeping me company but all i want is for them to leave**

 **how do people always manage to call when I'm crying?**

 **everybody would listen but they wouldn't get it.** **everybody would come stay if I asked but they cant guard dreams. nobody can protect me anyway**

 **if I asked once they'd think I needed it forever. do I?**

 **I wish I could be as alone as I feel.** **I wish I was as strong as I tricked everybody into thinking I am**

"Oh, Jane." You bow your head into her shoulder, both hugging and letting her shirt soak up the tears caught in your lashes. "I want to be there for you. I want to go back and take care of your hands and feed you and button your jackets and help you feel safe and let you cry on me. I can't stand it."

You cannot process that you heard what happened to her on the news. _Your_ Jane. Her full name and photo. And you didn't fly to her.

"I wouldn't have been ready for you back then," she smiles, appreciative and wistful. "My family did that stuff for me as much as I'd allow. Really anybody could do that part, not that I made it easy. They kept me alive and fed. But you.. you put pieces of me back together that I thought were not only broken off, but lost. Nobody else in the world could do the part you've done.

"Anyway. I wasn't still _this_ bad when we met, but... you were everything this person spent hundreds of nights crying her soul out for," she taps the page. "Just by being there. I wanted you to see that so maybe it could help you imagine how bad she wants to be that for you."

The wobble in her voice is what makes the next tear streak down your cheek, and she brushes it away with her thumb. Your throat is so tight you couldn't possibly reply, even if you could think of words.

"I know you're not way off the deep end like this, but I've been recognizing little pieces of this in you and it scares the shit out of me. I can't undo what happened, and I can't protect you from having to go through this. But I _can_ protect you from going through it alone. That might as well be why I exist, why I've been through everything I have. To make sure you don't feel alone or like nobody gets it. To make sure you feel safe. Don't you see you make me stronger? Protecting you saved me. Comforting you comforts me. I'm right here for you... I'm dying to do _any_ stupid little thing for you... just let me, okay?"

If her words aren't enough to convince you, the sincerity in her eyes is. You love her so much you could cry, if you weren't already.

Jane is a protector, and you took that away from her. What you thought was helping was actually the reason she had been struggling. You've been as clueless as people who keep a herding dog cooped up in a tiny apartment and wonder why it's distressed.

You lean into her, feeling small and safe when her arms encircle you. A vigorous nod is not the eloquent response you wish you could give, but it's about all you can manage at the moment, and it seems to make her very happy. She pulls you onto her lap in what would be a bridal carry if you were standing up, and hugs you and kisses your lips.

"So what can I do?"

You smile, wiping your eye.

There's no specific task you have to request, but you feel better already just from knowing that the foolish solitude you imposed on yourself is over. That you can and will turn to her when you need to.

"More hugs?" you suggest.

"You got it," she laughs, kissing your head and pressing her cheek there. "Any other demands?"

She's really asking. She's eager to do something, anything.

"Get naked, do a headstand and sing a song." It comes out of your mouth before you've even placed the memory, and only then do you hear how bizarre that's going to sound if she doesn't remember too.

She smiles hard with crinkly wet eyes. "That's a deliberately ridiculous request."

You kiss her. Her kiss back is like something could happen, so you make yours that way too. But after a lovely series of kisses, she pulls back.

"Wait, I- I'm sorry.. I know I just said-"

"Don't be sorry."

"I _want_ to." She says it like a wish, not a plan. She's struggling with something. "I really want to. It's just there's something we have to get out of the way first. You deserve..." she sighs. "I want to be sure you know what kind of person you're with."

"What do you mean?" you smile, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I'm with the bravest, most-"

"C'mon," she pulls away slightly, and you regret making the impression that she didn't have your genuine attention.

"I'm sorry. What is it?"

She chews on the inside of her cheek.

"I have to be sure it doesn't bother you that I killed him."

You frown. "Why would it?"

"Because I didn't _have_ to. BPD shoots to stop, not to kill. All I'm supposed to do as a cop is neutralize the threat. He was old, skinny, diseased... I could've beat the hell out of him and left him to have a few even shittier last days in prison."

"Lethal force was totally justified, and this is not the first time you've used it," you shrug. "I don't understand why you think it would bother me this time, of all times?"

"The others.. I didn't mean for them to die, and I'm sorry they did. I didn't kill him as a cop. Or as a victim. I killed him as the person who needed to be able to get in your bed that night and put her arms around you and promise you that he can never hurt you again." She loosens her embrace, like expecting you not to want it anymore. Not wanting to confirm this, you keep your arms right where they are. "I killed him for you. And I'm not sorry... but I have been worried you might feel different about me if you knew that."

You wait for this to bowl you over like she seems to expect it to, but it doesn't. It's not exactly news; you knew she was protecting you. But still, you hadn't thought of it in those words.

She's killed for you.

You shouldn't like that. You don't _like_ it. But you don't hate it. This knowledge touches something primal in you.

She's looking down at her palm, perhaps to delay looking you in the eye. Taking that hand, you touch all of its features, the veins and knot of scar tissue and long fingers you know so well. Slender yet strong, perfectly proportioned. It's saved you, held you, pleased you so gently inside and out.

"These hands killed for me."

She nods, jaw shifting visibly. Finding your eyes and squaring up to accept the consequences.

"Put them on me."

"Are you sure?" she blinks, the agitation in her big chocolate eyes not dissipating. "I killed somebody on purpose. Do you want somebody who can do that?"

" _Context_ , Jane," you nearly roll your eyes. "The somebody was Hoyt, and your purpose was our defense. And every one of us _can_ kill, given the right circumstances. You were given those circumstances, that's all."

She looks half-convinced at best.

"If that affects what I think of you, or how safe I feel with you," you cup her face gently, promising with a kiss, "it's only positively."

You're having trouble reading her. You kiss her again to gauge how this is going. She's receptive, but adds nothing.

"I want you to make love to me. It doesn't have to be now. But I want you to."

She leans her forehead against yours, longing and frustrated.

"I want to." She sighs. "But if you had regrets I don't think I could take it."

"What would I regret?" you ask, tracing the skin along the neckline of her shirt.

"If.." she pulls back enough to be able to focus on you, but then doesn't. "I dunno. If you felt different about me and.. you'd already let me move in and.. you'd already let me touch you."

She looks across the room, seeming to disappear into emotional thought.

"You let me inside you. Does that ever blow your mind? That a person can be _in side_ another person." Her voice suddenly sounds like she's yelled herself hoarse. "That's beautiful. Do you ever stop and think about that? Or maybe it's not so amazing to a doctor.."

"It is amazing," you nod. "It is beautiful."

"I've never taken that lightly. That you let me do that." She looks at you with very wet eyes. Maybe worrying that it doesn't mean all the same things to you that it does to her. And maybe it can't.

"I know you don't," you say gently, stroking down the back of her head.

"You know you can never get rid of.." her throat bobs when she swallows the rest of the shaky sentence. "I don't ever want to be a feeling you wish you could wash out."

"Darling, you could never be that to me."

You wonder if thinking you half understand is being far too generous.

"This doesn't give you anything in common with him," you add quietly. "I hope you don't think that, because I certainly don't. That was a terrible thing to have to do. But it wasn't wrong. And it doesn't change you."

Hopeful eyes collect every last word. You know she's waiting until she trusts her voice more.

"I love you, Jane. More than ever." You pull her head against you.

It's too important to her not to echo it back, even as only a broken husky whisper.

"Sleep on it? Please. You can tell me I'm a big dumb idiot tomorrow, just..."

"Okay. I wasn't saying that to get you to sleep with me."

She snorts. "I know."

"Can we stand up?" you ask, scooting off her lap.

Obediently she does, looking at you for instructions.

"I didn't get to hug you that night." You slide your arms around her neck and tuck your face into the crook of her neck. "I've never needed to hug you so badly and I couldn't and now it's stuck in me."

The real one contained joy, desperation, terror, relief, awe, exhaustion, shock - so many full-throttled conflicting signals that your brain gave up and all you could do was cry. Denied expression, it has been lodged behind your ribs ever since. This is only an imitation, but maybe it can vent some of the pressure.

She holds you, hard, one hand at the back of your head, and the long fierce kiss she pushes to your forehead lets you know she understands the exact moment you mean. She whispers something in your hair that might be "I'm so sorry". This hug is not one of affection, but a promise of protection, and you feel safe in these arms that would kill anyone who'd try to pry you out of them.

"I can't get close enough," you breathe against her neck. "I can't squeeze you hard enough."

"Try," she urges. "First one to break a bone loses."

She's already supporting so much of your weight that you barely need your legs anyway. You wrap them around her waist and her cooperation is so seamless that maybe she had the same idea at once. There's nothing sexual in it. You just needed more contact. Even that doesn't cure you, but it does feel good.

She holds you like that for so long that eventually you're wondering how long she can.

"Uh-oh," you look into the kitchen.

"What?" She turns around, trading views with you. "Oh, crap."

A minor cleanup later, you're shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch, pouring everything out to each other, slurping up soup spoons of as much ice cream as you could salvage.


	34. Absolute mush (x)

**All fluff and sex :)**

* * *

The sleeping profile of Jane Rizzoli makes you wish every morning that you were a good artist so you could sketch her before she stirs.

"Jane."

"Mmmmh." Her head lolls the other way.

You follow, smiling, pressing a kiss beside her ear.

Last night you talked until your voices went dry, dissecting every moment from each side. That closeness had been the next best thing to making love, and you fell asleep together in her chair with arms tight around each other.

You're surprised you ever fell asleep at all, with how ready you've been for morning to arrive.

"Wake up, you big dumb idiot."

..

"Wanna go anywhere?" she asks, finishing her breakfast.

"No." That was a bluff anyway. She's wearing her not-going-out-today sweatpants. "How's your inbox?" you ask, watching her thumb flick across her phone.

"Kinda quiet. Yours?"

"Nothing that can't wait," you reply, trying not to stare at her too expectantly.

"Well, then... if there's anything you gotta respond to today, you should do it now," she advises.

"Why is that?" you ask, already starting to smile, and forgetting instantly about the empty plates you just stood to collect.

"Because we're gonna go back up to bed after this, and the only body I want either of us thinking about for the rest of the day is yours."

You light up.

"You have plans?"

"I've had plans ever since.." she doesn't want or need to finish that sentence. "Unless you have any requests."

There are many things you want, but what you want most might be to just see what she does.

"Depends what your plans are."

"Lemme try a quick summary." She stands, cups your face gently and kisses you. Very slow and deep and soft, thumb stroking along your jawline. Its perfection is its own demise; you ruin it by smiling.

You knew this time was not going to be ordinary. Extra soft was likely, but extra hard was a possibility too.

You thought about her shoving you against the nearest wall for an aggressive kiss, the kind suggesting a desire to fireman carry you up the stairs to a fierce, cathartic fuck. And it's not that you _don't_ want that, or that you wouldn't have let her do it, but you think you would have been a little disappointed. You wanted softness, and you couldn't be happier that she has the same thing in mind.

"Exactly like that." You kiss her lips again lightly, knees already weakening.

The tips of your noses brush when she nods.

"Absolute mush. And lots of it."

You smile, eyes closed. "The softest ever."

"I want to kiss you everywhere," she murmurs between kisses. "Take my time. Nothing but orgasms and naps for you all day."

If you did have anything important to do this weekend, you certainly don't remember what it is now. You link your arms around her neck, grinning.

..

She rolls you back into the sheets with a kiss, hesitating for a second.

"This okay?"

Whatever she means, the answer is yes. You nod and sigh at the satisfaction of feeling her come to rest above you. Kissing you softly and deeply. Your legs wrap around her, not to seek more already, but just to be closer to her.

Somehow, there's going to be none of the frantic desperation of having almost both died, none of the rush of having ached for this for weeks. Only reverence. You know this is going to be not only an expression of love but a celebration of life, as well as an apology whether you want it or not.

She kisses your lips and your face and your throat, with a specific kiss just for your new scar. Her lips are soft and warmth pools between your legs as you reach a delightful simmer.

"Jane," you moan, fingers playing in her hair.

She pulls back, twisting her mouth to one side thoughtfully. Appraising how much you want her already.

"Minor change of plans... what do you say we begin with an appetizer before we both have an aneurysm."

You laugh out loud, more from gratitude than amusement. Stoking would soon turn to teasing, and that isn't her goal. "Sexual arousal doesn't cause aneurysms."

She stills you when you reach for the button on your slacks. "Leave 'em." She moves a leg over yours.

Her weight against you makes you moan even before she starts to move. It feels so good to have her close like this again.

Your love for her stings your eyes and then spills from one, then the other, and you know those will be the first of many.

The two of you are a tangle of soft but deep kisses, pushing against each other in sync. No words, because there would be too many. The sound of each others' breathing is more than enough.

Neither of you is trying to draw this out or make it sexy. It's just to vent pressure. Your climaxes arrive quickly, rather quietly, and nearly overlapping. She never removes her lips from yours even when breathing grows labored, and you draw in her moans so eagerly that they still feel warm in your lungs.

The mutual realization that you've both started to cry, and simultaneous smiles and brushes at each others' cheeks, is a moment you would keep in a scrapbook of favorite memories if you could.

For a quiet time you just look at each other from an inch apart. Barely smiling, eyes shining and noses pink. Just being that close. Just taking your time.

No one else has ever made you want to get an orgasm out of the way first so you could focus on making love.

Very soon, you realize that her plans were meant much more literally than you first thought.

"What," she glances up at your delighted laugh, completing another careful, parallel row of kisses along your upper arm.

"I know you."

"That's your crime scene search pattern." You laughed not at her, but about how much you know and love her. She is going to be very thorough.

Jane chuckles too. "I said everywhere."

And she means it. She doesn't rush any places to get to any other places. She kisses your arms, your hands, each finger, before she even removes your shirt, and then every inch of your chest before removing your bra.

You arch a little against her kisses, hissing in pleasure when her hot mouth accepts your nipple. Even though this is the destination you've been waiting for, you don't want her to spend long there after all, because now you're starting to want her elsewhere even more.

In a very subtle hint, you remove your slacks and panties in the same motion, but she puts you back down on your stomach.

She catches you nearly rolling your eyes as you settle on the sheets.

"I said everywhere."

"Yes, you did."

"Do you need another one first?" she kisses your shoulder. "This isn't to tease you."

You shake your head, smiling.

"You sure? You tell me when and how.. that's all today is about."

You could absolutely come again now, but you could also enjoy having your appetite stoked a little more.

"I'll let you know," you smirk.

She kisses your scapula.

"I always wonder.. doesn't it hurt your boobs to lie face down?"

You laugh.

"Why are you asking like you don't also have breasts?"

"Well, mine are more... lie-on-able." You feel her hair drag along your skin as she kisses your trapezius. "Do we need a pillow or something under there? I want you to be comfy."

"I am," you reassure her. "And if they do get uncomfortable, I'm sure you can help them feel better."

"Gladly. Now," she runs a finger straight down your spine, "Teach me how many bones are in here."

"Thirty-three."

She asks you to name them and help her find each to make sure they all get a kiss. If she notices you getting a little misty when she placemarks T5 with her finger to go back and give T4 a better kiss, she doesn't mention it.

"The five segments of the sacrum are fused together..."

"Venus," you barely hear her murmur to herself, and she kisses each of your sacroiliac joints.

"Yeah," you smile.

You could try to think of something clever to say about her kissing your buttocks, but you won't.

"The um.. four segments of the coccyx are usually... Jane?" you swallow. Her thoroughness has left with you with one increasingly burning curiosity.

She wouldn't.

"Hm."

You feel her breath. If there was a smile on your face, it drops off immediately at her next few kisses.

You don't even know what that word or sound was that just caught in your throat. It wasn't one of pleasure - you don't even think of that until after - but of disbelief.

"Jane-"

"I said everywhere."

You curse under your breath.

"You never told me you were into that," she sounds amused.

"I'm not- I mean, it's not a... I just didn't think you'd..."

"Oh, I would definitely never," she agrees, both hands kneading gently. "Except for you. Feel good?"

It does, but that's not what feels good about it. It's just knowing that there's no part of you she won't lavish her love upon. You didn't think anyone would ever do that for you as an act of affection, or that you would get emotional about it.

Her question might have been a real one. It seems very unlikely that she's ever permitted that. "Very," you answer shakily.

A small laugh comes from down by the backs of your knees. Oh. You have to remind your hands that the reason they're still squeezing fistfuls of sheets has apparently been over for some time. Although, you would like a different reason now.

"Jane," you breathe, turning over. "Jane, please, now."

"At your service."

Strong hands wrap your thighs, but it's you who opens them wider, wider. You feel eyelashes on your iliac crest and warm breath down low. And you see her look at you like a treasure before she closes her eyes and brings her lips to you.

Your head tilts back to release a long, low moan at the delicious heat of her mouth.

"So good. So good," you moan, your breath snagging on your dry throat.

You're breathing her name. Knees bent, toes curled, fingers in her hair. Trying to stroke at her head instead of pulling on it, succeeding only occasionally. Right now her tongue is your entire world.

She knows what you like because you enjoy it and what you like because you need it, and when to shift. It's good and swift, just like you need. She brings you over the edge so easily, and every part of it - the orgasm, the roll of your hips, your moans of her name - is rich and smooth as butter.

Although she doesn't seem done, she obeys when you tug at her, knowing what you're eager for. You sigh at the taste of her kiss.

"You've gotten so good at that."

"I have a good coach," she grins into your kiss.

She settles next to you, stroking at your hip.

"I want to feel your skin." You tug at her t-shirt.

You let her sit up to shed her shirt and her bra. She moves like she's going to slip her thumbs under the waist of her sweats too, but pauses.

"That's okay." More skin would be delightful, but you'd rather have her more comfortable than more naked. Today is sweet and soft and simple. No challenges. No explanations. "Jane. Really."

She glances over and you can tell she's relieved.

"I.."

You shake your head once. "Just easy today."

She smiles, eyes a little wet again.

"Rest awhile." You scoot down in bed, pulling her upper body against your lips. Side by side, not top and bottom.

She approves with a barely detectable happy sigh, closing her eyes and resting her head. Your fingers trace the smooth dip of her waist while your mouth roams her collarbones, her chest, her breasts.

"You're so lovely, Jane." You suck softly at a nipple until it slips from your lips. You find her watching, and she closes her eyes with a little smile, so you do it more.

How you'd love to pamper and please her like she's just done for you.

"I wish I could make love to you." When her face begins to react, you add, "Not asking. Just saying. You said I could say."

You rest your head where it is, just looking up and sharing her loving and wistful look.

"You think you never have."

"Hm?"

"You have a hundred times." She chooses a strand of your hair to twirl between two fingers.

"Like when we used to talk in the dark?" you guess.

She shakes her head. "Like just now. Every time you've ever let me off the hook."

"What?"

"Every time you make it okay to change my mind. And just.. hold my hand and watch TV or let me fall asleep with you instead of whatever we were gonna do. Every time I lost my nerve, _again,_ and you could've finally gotten annoyed but you didn't make me feel bad. Every time you pretended _you_ were the one who wanted to stop." The corner of her mouth goes trembly, an excess of emotion threatening her smile. "That's not making love how you mean it, but... if the point is feeling like you love me, it is to me."

"Oh, Jane."

"I know when we do more it's gonna be great. But I don't know if anything'll ever beat the way you always just.. let me come home."

Her fingertips ghost over your heart, and you know she doesn't mean home like the house.

"You are too precious to comprehend." You hug her harder for a moment, pulling her sternum against your kiss. "I adore you, Jane."

Her lips are on yours when she replies, but you get the idea.

It's wonderful when she rolls and settles on top of you again, giving you practically all of her weight, ready to find her own release against you. You grin, loving every second, your hands feeling the muscles in her lower back flex as she works herself insistently against your bare thigh.

You recognize the little noise she makes when she tucks her face into your neck.

Jane may be your protector, but this is when she relies on you for protection. In order to let go, she needs to feel safe and home and hidden from the world.

"I've got you," you promise, scrunching at the back of her head and then tightening your embrace. Making her feel safe at her most vulnerable moment is a duty you cherish.

You hold her tight until she relaxes, chest warm and bare and heavy against yours. You can predict almost down to the individual breath when she's going to shift off of you, and that she's going to want to rest beside you with her head cradled against your chest instead.

"You'll always be welcome home, Jane," you tell her, stroking her hair. "No matter what."

She sighs silently and kisses your heart.

Your fingers trail up and down her back until the light in the window is different. Maybe you dozed off.

Everything so far has felt good, but the next part is what makes you cry. Really cry, out loud. To a degree that you used to think would be disastrously awkward and mood-ruining. But it isn't, because she's crying with you, and you aren't sure which of the tears on your cheeks are yours.

She's above you, whispering "I love you" in your ear and filling you gently.

You cry like _I'm so glad you're alive_ and _you almost weren't_. She cries like _I'm so sorry_ and _I'll never let anything happen to you ever again_ and she kisses your lips and your cheeks and your throat.

And you never breathe _faster_ or _harder_ because that's not what this is at all. This isn't really even like sex. She's just being in you, deep and slow and reverent.

"Oh," you hiccup with realization, and squeeze your eyes shut. "That's it."

She takes that to mean she's found a good spot, and she has, but that's not what you meant.

You shake your head. "I love you."

It's that feeling caught in you. That deferred hug, that restless need for closeness that's been trapped like an air bubble you couldn't reach. But she can. It's like she's found it inside you and is massaging it directly.

But you don't have the words to explain this.

You lie utterly open to her, letting her love cover and fill and envelop you, and you trade those three words back and forth, yours a jagged whimper and hers a deep soft promise. And although by the end you might have said it hundreds of times, not one is said of mindless repetition but each is brand new and individually genuine.

It's so perfect that part of you is disappointed for it to reach a crescendo. Your last few confessions come out as quiet flinching sobs, your body hugging her fingers like begging them never to leave because she's finally as close as you needed her.

She whispers to you while you come down, saying it for both of you now, covering your cheeks and your nose and your closed eyes and your open mouth with small kisses.

"Stay," you sigh, and she does, knowing you aren't asking for another round. Neither of you are done with this closeness.

She kisses your brows and your chin and your nose and she Kisses your forehead. That one is a particular kiss, one you've never asked her to define, bestowed purposefully on your head after every time she has ever made love to you this way. It's certainly affection, but there's also something solemn in it - maybe a thanks for your trust, perhaps a promise not to take that for granted. There is a purity about it that always melts what little is left of you.

With her forehead resting on yours, she stays for long after, even slower, with no more words.

...

Tired smiles. Blinks long enough to be short naps. A lazy, oxytocin-drunk morning. You don't remember dreaming.

You stroke a fingertip delicately over her eyebrow. Its arch is so perfect you don't know what else to do. She's been playing with your hair for at least an hour.

"You stayed in bed."

"Mm-hmm," she smiles.

"Did you sleep ok?"

"Mm-hmm," again, happy and proud. You trace her mouth where the corners have spread in a little smile.

There's no need to tell her you love her again. You've never said that as many times in your entire life as you did last night, and your eyes haven't stopped saying it yet.

The entire previous day is a blur of lovemaking and naps just as she promised. The last thing you can recall is your longest, loveliest, most contented make-out to date. It must still have been early in the evening when you fell asleep.

You're hungry.

"We never ate except for breakfast," you realize.

"Speak for yourself."

" _Pff_ ," you roll your head away to chuckle.

That's right. At some undetermined hour of night, she remembered that part of your right shin still needed kissing, and when she had done so, she helped herself to you again. Still half-asleep and blissfully helpless, you released yourself once more into her adoring mouth before fading back into slumber.

All told, you still got a few more hours of sleep than usual.

"I haven't slept in like that in years," you rub you eyes, sleepy from too much sleep.

"Sleep more if you want. I'm gonna make you breakfast. And then I want to feel you come again.. so you might as well just stay in bed."

"You're spoiling me," you grin into her affectionate kiss, tugging lightly on the ends of her hair. Fully aware that if you asked for another orgasm before she leaves the room, she would do it, and that's almost reason enough to ask.

She gets out of bed, still bare above the waist. Your eyes take in the beautifully lean muscles of her back in the morning light, and for a moment you think she's going to fix breakfast like that, until she grabs a shirt from the dresser on her way out.

You file a mental note that you want to see her nude in every room of the house.

Alone, you stretch hard and roll into Jane's warm spot, pulling the sheets against your skin and smiling at her scent.

Don't fall asleep again, you remind yourself, or she'll probably bring you breakfast in bed. As nice as that would be, it's not worth crumbs in the sheets. You'd better get up and shower and make your way downstairs.

But if you get your way, you will not be setting foot outside this house for the rest of the weekend.

* * *

 **More like this from now on, yes?**


	35. Maura's touch (x)

**Sorry for the wait. Life and inspiration and stuff.**

 **Sexy chapter.**

* * *

Things start to improve immediately. It isn't like the night with Hoyt never happened, but you're on almost as level ground as you were right before it did.

Your anxiety decreases, just from knowing that Jane has your back. You call on her for every little thing - sometimes out of want, but often just because you know she's eager to fulfill. Sometimes she disguises her real eagerness with comedic overeagerness, like nearly tipping her kitchen chair backwards in her haste to refill your iced tea. She likes to make you laugh. You fall asleep in her arms every night, and when the rare dream troubles you, she is never too tired to comfort you.

The group is so good at looking out for you that for a while you mistook it for a run of lucky circumstances. Someone always makes sure you know who you're working with, and some reason is always found which keeps you from being left alone in situations that might make you anxious. You like how they make you feel protected but not babysat.

Jane's anxiety decreases. Now that she knows you'll ask if you need her, her secret checkings-on-you cease. Her apartment sells right away. She starts therapy and although she comes home mocking Dr. Klein's therapist-speak, you can tell she's taking the important aspects to heart and making a genuine effort. You have many more long talks. The kind that are difficult but leave you feeling lighter and closer.

The average day feels good again.

* * *

You're lengthwise on the couch, your back against the arm, and Jane's back against your front.

Tonight you chose the movie, but in the past few minutes, it's fallen to a distant second most interesting thing going on in the room - number one being the lump moving lazily under in the blanket that's draped over Jane.

It turns you on, but that's not the primary reason you're smiling. You just like that she's that relaxed, that comfortable in your arms. Clearly she isn't doing it for show, maybe not necessarily even hoping to involve you, but neither is she trying to hide it.

You kiss behind her ear, and she smiles but stills.

"When I said I thought you might enjoy this movie, I didn't think it would be _that_ much."

"Shut up," she grins.

"Please don't stop on my account."

"Like it?"

"I like watching you masturbate." You say it a little lower and a little closer.

"Mh," she makes a note that sounds torn between satisfaction and dissatisfaction. "Too bad they gave such a cool thing such an ugly word."

"It's not ugly. It's from the Latin verb mean-"

"Dead languages are a turnoff."

"Would you like me to help in a live one?" you ask, skimming your nose along the shell of her ear.

"Sure."

"Can I t-" Wait, no. You slip your hands down and find her skin just under the bottom of her shirt, watching for her reaction instead of asking permission. It makes you a little nervous, even though she told you to.

She smiles sideways in approval.

And you slide your hands up warm abdominals and under her bra, where two soft points rise to greet your fingers.

She rests her head back against your shoulder and you smile, playing with her, watching her tend to herself leisurely and with closed eyes.

"What are you thinking about?"

She smiles sideways.

"You."

"Me."

"Yep."

"Me, hmm... pruning my roses?" you tease. "Me, turning my cart toward the produce section at Whole Foods?"

"No, but if those were supposed to be turnoffs, you'll have to try harder."

"They aren't?"

"I like you. So I like the way you do lots of stuff," she shrugs. "Not just sexy stuff."

That slips between your ribs and lodges in your heart in a way you aren't sure it was meant to. Only when she looks at you questioningly do you realize you've gone still, and start again.

She has a way of being accidentally very sweet. But you know if you told her so, she'd only shrug, so you kiss her.

And that's how it goes for a few minutes. Just soft kisses while she touches herself. Your hands roaming her breasts and her abdomen, augmenting but not interfering. Doing what you think she might if she had four hands. You can tell from the almost-little-sighs in her breathing that she likes it.

"Are you wet under there?" you ask.

"Little bit, I think."

"You think?"

Her mouth opens and closes, like she doesn't know what to say. "I don't do it like that," she offers finally.

"Do it like- you don't actually touch..." you realize.

She shakes her head.

"Ever?"

Shake.

"In all the times you've come with me, you haven't been touching your own skin?"

You knew she did it through her clothes a lot, but you didn't know it was exclusively.

"S' how I've always done it. It's better. No fuss, no muss."

Personally, you strongly disagree.

"Okay.. tell me how you do it, then?"

"Well.. through everything, if it's sweatpants or PJs or something. Jeans or work pants are too thick and I have to go under 'em."

She's wearing sweatpants right now, but oh, that's an image you've always liked.

"I have to tell you something," you confess. "I've always really... _really_ liked that fantasy of you. That's something I used to stop myself from thinking about."

"Wait, what? What is?"

"You in your suit. Sitting on your couch after work... belt undone and your hand down the front of your slacks.. working out the tensions of the day. I pictured you being quiet even though you were alone."

"That's not much of a fantasy," she snorts. "That's just me being a slob on a weeknight."

"Oh, yes it is," you kiss behind her ear. "I guess I'm going to have to make some subtle corrections to it, though."

So your after-work-couch-fantasy-Jane isn't teasing slippery flesh with her fingertips. Just underwear.

That is an aspect you liked - her fingers dipping just inside that hard professional facade and finding liquid heat and all the softness of a woman. You liked the juxtaposition. You liked the visual of Detective Rizzoli having a stoic orgasm alone in her apartment, refusing to let even the empty room see her succumb to moans.

You let her lay against you, doing what she needs to do. Watching that lump shift between her legs. Whatever is going on under there, it's remained quite subtle.

A couple of times it seems like she's close, and you coordinate your aid with what you think is an impending climax, but she stops. Breathes and cools down instead.

You wonder what you're doing wrong, or if she's having trouble getting there with you involved.

She rests her til-recently-busy hand on yours, and you guess this is over, until something about it gets your attention.

 _It's not the first time she's doodled on your skin with a fingertip. She does that sometimes, as an absentminded, affectionate thing, but her deliberateness now is different._ _A circle on the back of your hand. Just one, like you would draw on a piece of paper, stopping once complete._ _She keeps doing it, waiting a few seconds, doing it again._

 _The significance eludes you, but you draw a circle on her stomach in acknowledgement._

 _Then she does an X. So do you._

 _Circle again. You copy._

 _You're on the verge of asking whether this means anything when her hand takes yours and slides down, tucking both together between her legs. And suddenly you understand, ready to keep copying very, very obediently._

Even as the one in complete control of it, she tenses at your first move. You knew she would. Trusting her, you kiss her head and say nothing, letting her take her time.

Trusting you, she tries again. And with the back of your hand as her canvas, she is soon teaching you how to touch her.

She's still looking at the TV, definitely trying to pretend for the sake of her nerves that this is no big deal.

You watch her face, aroused and smitten and fascinated at the means of wordless communication that human being are capable of. You're embellishing nothing, duplicating her touch so accurately that it's nearly as if she's touching herself. This was a very good idea.

You find another way to promise your faithfulness, that you understand what she needs this to be, that she is just as safe as if the fingertips massaging at the seam of her sweatpants were still her own.

"Feels good to touch yourself?"

Not missing a beat, she nods.

You remember your other hand and bring it back to her nipple, earning almost a whimper.

"You're so beautiful when you're pleasuring yourself. So sexy."

She rolls her head to the side and arches faintly, not used to this much stimulation. Her free hand squeezes your leg gradually harder as you pleasure her in tandem.

"Maura," she whines, rubbing that fingertip in tiny, insistent circles on your knuckle.

You smile. You smile at how beautiful she is, at the trust and effort you know this is taking, at the way she's fighting to let you do it instead of knocking your hand aside and doing it herself now that she's close.

It hits you. You're going to give Jane an orgasm for the first time. She's had many for you, but you've never actively given her one before.

You've _helped_ her countless times. You've spent many nights whispering words designed to push her over the edge; you've kissed her sensually and sucked her nipples for her while she did the rest on her own; most recently she's begun to grind out her own release against you. You've served as an erotic audio-visual aid and a very willing surface. But she's never let you stimulate her directly. And you're as honored as you are aroused.

"Going to come now, darling?"

"I-" Her breath catches and you feel her nod against you.

"I've got you."

And she shudders against both of your hands working as one, coming to your touch for the first time. Simple and quiet and monumental.

You aren't sure whether it's that, or the huge shaky breath and wet-eyed sheepish grin, that make you fall in love with her all over again.

* * *

The basement has taken shape.

Despite how hard you tried to get "den" to stick, Jane won't refer to it as anything other than her "man cave". It's kind of a streamlined take on her old living room. Most of her sports memorabilia has found its way out of boxes and onto the walls.

She insists on buying the furniture herself. It's a good thing a mini fridge is an appliance, not furniture. It's supposed to arrive tomorrow, and when she sees it it'll already have an inaugural six-pack in it.

You already know this is where she's going to hang out with her brothers when they come over. It's not that they don't feel at home in your living room, but this will be a room where it's not a disaster if somebody spills a little beer.

She's sitting on the new area rug where there isn't a couch yet. Elbows on her knees, looking up at the newly-hung TV although it's off. Sensing you, she twists around.

"We could bring chairs down there, you know," you smile, coming down a few more steps.

"I'm basking in new rug smell."

You get down on the ground next to her.

"You were right about the red. I thought it was gonna look bloody."

She's done the room mainly in tans and charcoals, but you talked her into doing one accent wall in a deep red. All three colors are represented in flecks on her torn jeans.

"It looks good," you nod, going quiet in thought for a little while. "Is red your favorite color because of the Red Sox?"

"No," she smiles. "I dunno. It's just.. a good strong color. Hey, how come you don't have a blue wall anywhere in the house?"

"Blue isn't necessarily my favorite color."

"You've said a different one every time I've ever asked, but you say blue most often. Course you can never just _say_ blue. It's always prussian cobalt or something, but still."

"Blues are very pretty," you shrug. "But it's too hard to have a favorite when any color can be pleasing."

"That's such a you answer," she smirks, leaning back on her elbows. "Yeah, this'll be a proper room once the couch comes."

"When is that?"

"Friday. You know the first thing I want to do in my proper room on Friday night?"

You smirk. "I have a theory."


	36. You in me (x)

**Sexy chapter! (Will they all be from now on? Maybe)**

* * *

You love. _L.o.v.e._ giving Jane orgasms. That could easily sound uncouth out of context. But you do.

It's been so many times since that day on the couch, and every time, she still looks she can only just barely manage letting you. But despite that, and despite the fact that it's something she could technically do better herself, she keeps bashfully wanting you to do it for her. And you love that.

So you'll lie next to her and talk and kiss and massage her gently beneath the sheets, just the way she taught you. You wonder how many times it will be before the fabric of her pajama pants begin to show wear in that spot.

It's a delicate balance. The slower and softer you are, the more it does for her; on the other hand, since this is often your last act before sleep, that slow pace makes it easy to accidentally doze off too soon. It's happened a couple times now, and you've stopped apologizing. She seems to like that just as well.

But most of the time, you get her there. She tucks her face into your neck - you don't know if that's more affection or hiding - and hums soft little notes that melt you from the inside out. It's always beautiful, but knowing that _you did that_ is an extra thrill.

You love all of it.

* * *

The back passenger door opens.

"What are you doing here so earl-"

You and Korsak both whirl halfway around, bringing fingers to your lips. _"SHHH!" "Get in."_

Freezing, Jane gets in the back seat and pulls the door shut too gently to latch it.

"We expected her back by now," you scold her, looking out the windshield of Korsak's cruiser again. "You might have spooked her."

"Who?" She cranes her neck, looking around. "And why didn't you guys call me?"

"The mother, naturally," you reply. "We didn't think you were interested."

"Mother... the Hannigan case? What do you mean _interested_? Is Frost here?"

"No, it- looklook! Here she comes," Korsak holds up a hand to silence Jane and raises his binoculars.

 _"Who?"_ Jane hisses, slouching down sideways. "Elisa Hannigan? She doesn't live on our street."

"I don't... oh! Beaks!" you grin delightedly, finding your target. Beyond the edge of the nest you can see just a glimpse of tiny wiggly hungry mouths outstretched towards their mother.

"I see 'em!" the older man comes a little closer to giggling than he looks able.

"Beaks...?" Jane repeats.

"Can you tell how many? I only see two for sure."

"Mm, yeah... could be three. Boy, would I love to get a ladder up there."

"I knoww," you shake your head.

Jane sits up. "This is a _bird stakeout_."

"Starlings," he confirms, fiddling with the focus on his binoculars.

You spotted the nest two weeks ago in the sixth tree down from your front door, and he'd requested daily updates.

"Is that... rare?"

"Among the most common in Massachusetts," you turn, offering your binoculars to the unamused face in the back seat. "I showed you the eggshell I found on the sidewalk when we were jogging, remember?"

"Yeah..." she rubs her face, still not completely awake yet. "You guys know you can google a picture of a baby bird if you wanna see one so bad, right?"

"That isn't the point."

"Okay. When you're through with more pressing matters, we actually do have to find Elisa Hannigan today, by the way," she pokes Korsak's shoulder.

"Not for -" he checks his watch "- 27 minutes, we don't."

"Uh-huh. You riding in the birdmobile today? Want me to bring you your purse?"

"No, I'll be back in in a minute," you wave over your shoulder at her.

Jane heaves the door back open with her foot, muttering something under her breath.

"Desk duty all week if you slam that door, Rizzoli," he warns. She makes a face, clicking it quietly and heading back toward the house.

" _Googling_ baby birds," you shake your head.

"She's always been like that."

"Although... I mean, it..." you tilt your head thoughtfully. "It wouldn't hurt. Just for, um..."

"Make sure we've got the species right..."

"Yes," you nod, tapping out _starling hatchling 1 week_ , and holding your phone out as the pictures load.

"Awww," you both smile.

* * *

She's sitting on her couch, still in her work clothes, eyes closed and one boot on the edge of the coffee table.

You're completely nude, still laying where she finished you, your legs now extended over her lap. Her fingertips run lazily up and down your shin while you cool down.

She is never really _hard_ , but at the behest of your moans this was probably the hardest she's ever been with you, and it was exactly what you needed.

There are some workdays you need that at the end of, and there's something you like very much about how her den has become the go-to spot for it. You like Jane taking you to her territory to ravish you. Usually there isn't any discussion. She can tell before you've even left work. At home she'll drop her keys on the table, put away her gun, and lead you quietly downstairs, and within a few minutes make you forget everything except her name.

Like you're a computer running too many programs and she can reset you by pushing the right buttons. You've rebooted now. Clear and running smoothly.

"Your turn?" you ask. " _If_ that got you in the mood."

She squeezes your knee so you squirm and laugh.

"Do you want to lie down?"

She shakes her head, pulling you to her. "C'mere."

"Oh, is it my turn again?" you ask, straddling her lap and smiling at her hands on your breasts.

"Any day I see Pike in the building, I figure you've earned an extra round."

"That's very considerate, but don't you dare classically condition me to get aroused at the sight of Dr. Pike."

"Ew," she pauses.

"I didn't say stop. Let's just say I earned it from..." You see no point in trying to remember why your day was bad. "Something else."

"Deal."

Kissing down to Jane is delightfully unusual. It's one reason you like sitting on her lap - it's the closest you can get to being on top.

"Tell me something new," she asks.

"Like what?"

"I dunno. Something we haven't done. Tell me some weird secret thing you want."

You laugh, twirling the end of her ponytail between your fingers. "I don't want anything weird."

"Okay, then some secret normal thing. What's something you'd like that we've never done or talked about?"

"Well." There are two main things you haven't done, and one you've already talked about a lot. The other, you've very carefully avoided mentioning because you're sure it would make her uncomfortable. But that's not to say you never think about it.

How many times have you wished you could make love to her like she does for you? How much time have you spent on daydreams planning, in case she ever asks, how exactly you'd do it to make sure she liked it? Imagining sinking into the heat that must burn beneath those dumb plaid pajamas, wondering what her face would look like when you did it, how she would sound - and then guiltily shoving all of these thoughts from your mind?

"Go on, you can say it," she half smiles, like she knows what you're thinking. It's practically the only answer this question sounds designed for.

Can you say it? What if there's a different obvious answer that you're completely missing? What if she's thinking of something innocent and you're going to say the one thing that would scare her?

"I think about.." you inhale, "..being inside you." At once your cheeks feel hot, and you're sure it was the wrong thing to say. "R-rarely. I try not to."

"Why?" she dips her head slightly to find your eyes. "What's the matter?"

"It feels wrong to think about."

"It isn't."

You frown, shaking your head. "You wouldn't want that."

The corners of her mouth curl slightly, and her hands resume their meandering trek around your hips.

"Fantasy Jane would." You share a long look with those dark expressive eyes you know so well, until she urges you along with a playful squeeze. "When's it hard not to think about?"

Those eyes have never tricked you. If you resist, she'll only drag it out of you anyway.

"When you let me please you," you admit. "I think about if you're wet. And how I.."

She smiles softly. "And how you'd touch me?"

You close your eyes and nod.

"How would you?" she asks, her mouth pressed beneath your ear.

"So gently."

"For real me, you would." Her fingers tease where you're still wet from before. "How do you do it for fantasy me?"

"However you wanted," you swallow.

"Fantasy Jane wants what you want."

It's difficult to construct this fantasy on your own, because fulfilling _her_ real needs would be its point. You don't know what to say, especially _to_ her.

"Fantasy Jane likes whatever you like," she repeats. "What do you want to do with her?"

"I.."

"You want to touch her?" One finger parts you down the middle.

"Uh-huh," you tilt your head, giving her access to your neck.

"You want to know what she's like inside?"

"Mmmhm."

"You want to fuck her?"

That uncomfortable jolt that just went through your chest - was that on her behalf, or was that your own reaction?

She's not trying to entrap you into saying something she'll get upset about. Not in her honey voice. She wouldn't use it against you like that.

You did not like that question, or the fact that hearing her ask it sent a thrill through your whole body.

"... Because you could say that too, if you wanted to."

You shake your head, not sure enough it's the truth to put it in words. But you can tell from her eyes that she doesn't believe you. You've gone way too solemn, and she can tell she's touched a nerve.

"I don't mean anything weird..."

"I know."

"You seemed okay with it a minute ago," she tries, smiling carefully.

And she's certainly right about that. But to imagine doing to her what she just did to you is _not_ something you should like, so you shouldn't think too much about it. Wanting anything beyond gentleness with this sweet, sensitive woman would be... well, you would hate to find out you did.

"Yeah. I like it when you fuck me."

"Mm? What do you like about it?" she asks, kneading lightly at your buttocks.

"I like to feel..." you wet your lips, searching, "... your strength. I like to feel like I belong to you. Not in a - that _doesn't_ mean..." you trail off, defensive and unsure whether you even mean whatever point you're making.

"That doesn't mean you want to do that to me," she finishes.

"Right."

"But it wouldn't be bad if thinking about it excited you. Fantasies don't have to be reality."

You know that's true, because you've said that to her. So you try, and your vision goes watery. She would not like that. And if you continued to think about it for one more second, would you be any better than...

"I can't." You shake it from your head. "I _can't_ picture you liking it and I _don't_ enjoy thinking about about doing things to you that you don't li-"

"Hey, hey," she hugs you close, just in time to ease you back from the brink of tears. "I'm sorry. I'm not asking you to think about anything like that. It's pretend, thought the point would be that I'd like it. I'm sorry."

"But you _wouldn't!"_ you pull back. "Why would I picture you liking it when you've told me it scares you and you probably never want to do it? Why are you trying to get me to say this?"

"You've never brought it up," she shrugs. "I wanted you to know you could. It's not wrong to think about, or talk to me about more than I'm ready to do. You don't have to be tied down to my hangups even in your own fantasies."

"Your hangups are a part of us," you fire back, "that I don't wish away even in the privacy of my own mind. You have all the same boundaries in my fantasies... Fantasy Jane _is you_. I wouldn't just-"

Her eyes fill up as she stares back at you, and for a moment you regret replying too hastily. But to your relief, you recognize a faint smile - one of those little, wobbly, suddenly vulnerable ones. Only in review of your irritable words do you realize they accidentally reassured an insecurity of hers better than some painstakingly-crafted sonnet could've.

You soften. "There's no other version of you I'd rather think about," you promise, cupping her face and kissing her lips.

"There's so much more I want to share with you than what I actually can," she murmurs, skimming your jawline with her thumb. "There's nothing I'd say no to, for you, you know?... even if it could only be talking through it. You did that for me a thousand times. That's all I was trying to do."

You trace her nose with the tip of yours.

"We don't have to talk about that if you don't want to," her voice shrinks to almost a whisper. "But can I tell you a secret?"

Finding her eyes, you nod.

"There's hardly a day that goes by that I don't think about it. You inside me."

"You do?"

She nods, biting her lip nervously. "It's not recent."

Your chest feels full of butterflies.

"I thought it scared you to think about?"

"Have you ever been scared of and obsessed with the same thing? You end up thinking about it a lot."

"But.. so, in your mind... you _want_ that?"

"With you. You have no idea."

Bees, maybe. Not butterflies.

"And it would feel good? With me?"

"Good. And terrifying and amazing."

"I didn't know." You just sit there, staring eye to eye as your forgotten arousal stirs again, catching up fast. "When do you think about it?"

"When you... y'know, for me at night, and we don't talk, sometimes that's what I'm thinking about."

You nod, tracing her eyebrow. "Me too."

"So what if Fantasy Jane finally asked you one night," she smiles. "How would it be?"

The first thing that comes to mind has little to do with sex itself.

"More than anything I would be so... honored. No- I am. I _am_ honored already. That you even think about sharing that with me - I really am."

"Thank you," she whispers, and you love that she took that as genuinely as you meant it. "And I can't blame you for thinking she'd never do that. She didn't think so either, for a long time. She didn't think she could ever want that again."

"But she does with me..." you offer, half a question.

"You're the only one she can want that with," she murmurs in your ear. "Nobody else. Only you."

Arousal and emotion are hitting you from opposite sides, leaving you weak. You tug her hand back to where you want it, and your mouth opens in a soft " _oh_ " as she obliges.

"And she wouldn't just _let_ you. She _wants_ you. You know why?"

"She loves me?"

"Yeah," she grins, and it makes a little moisture collect in the corners of her eyes. "More than anything. You know why else?"

You bite your lip. "She... trusts me?"

"She trusts you," she nods, kissing your neck. "You're the only one she would ever trust inside her."

"She'd trust me inside her," you echo, your eyes squeezing shut as her fingers do what you wish yours could.

In secret whispers she articulates your own fantasy right into your ear, disarming your taboo and re-shaping it into something unbearably wonderful.

"She's ached inside for you. Every day, for so long."

"She has," you ask breathlessly.

She nods. "And you're the only one who could make it better. The more she thought about it the more she ached... she went to sleep wet for you so many nights."

"She could've asked me. I'd- she _did_ ask me. I gave her release every night she ever asked for it. It was my favorite thing to do."

"Yeah, you always made her come so nice... but it only made her trust you a little bit more, and want you inside a little bit more. But she was still too scared."

"I'd be so good to her, she'd never have to be scared again," you beg, squeezing her shoulders. "Please, I love her so much. I'd do it just how she wants... please. It's me. I'd do anything. She doesn't have to be afraid."

"She knows that, sweetheart. It'd be scary but you'd make her feel safe."

"She's safe," you breathe, rocking against her tempo. "She's safe with me."

"She wouldn't be able to believe how good it feels to trust you like that. You'd do it so good." Your shiver at her lips on your ear. Sincere and not libidinous. "What would she feel like inside?"

You think of easing into sacred, silky heat and massaging her so lovingly.

"She'd be so warm- hot. Soft. So beautiful."

"You'd know how to touch her so nice. Like nobody ever has."

You nod hard. "I'd be the softest anyone ever was. I'd want her to feel so good. I.."

"Tell me.."

You whimper, flexing against her. "I want her to trust me on top of her and inside her... deep..." You feel a rush from moaning that directly to the person you've never even allowed yourself to think it about. "So I could make every bit of her feel nothing but love. Outside and in.."

"You would."

"If she liked it she could a-ask me any time..."

"Careful," she smiles. "She might take you up on that."

You shake your head. "I'd do it."

"What if it always took a really long time?"

"Doesn't matter."

"What if she couldn't..."

"That's okay. I'd do it as long as she liked. Whatever she needed. It'd be so beautiful."

"What if it wasn't beautiful," she asks, her voice small and full of holes. "What if she couldn't stop crying the whole time? What if she was still scared and she made it weird.."

You cut her off with a kiss. "It would be beautiful, because it was her."

"Would if she came for you?"

You moan softly at the thought. "Oh, I-I'd get to feel it with her. It'd be so beautiful.. I'd feel her..." You start to tighten around her fingers, like your body wants to demonstrate. "I'd tell her I loved her. I'd make sure that's all she heard while she was- _oh- Oh, Jane. Oh, Jane._ "

You lose yourself for a moment, and then your head is on her shoulder and fingers are gently sweeping the hair from your nape.

You glance down to her lap. You don't usually do it like this, but she looks close, and you want to bring her with you. She nods.

Slipping a hand between you, you find the spot on her slacks. "Come on, darling. It's alright." It won't take much. Especially if you suck her earlobe when you whisper that you love her.

 _"Mau-"_ She breathes your name hot on your shoulder, clutching you tight until her hips buck under you.

"Beautiful." You kiss her brow. "And then I'd hold her while she cried."

"That doesn't have to be part of it..." she pants, letting her head rest back.

"Not part of it? It's her favorite," you insist, dotting her face with small kisses. "And she's my favorite and she's you."

She smiles a sigh at you, eyes almost full enough to spill, and pulls your lips to hers.


	37. Vacation (x)

**Sexy again :) Let me know if we need a break...**

* * *

It hits you so suddenly that it wakes you up at 2:04AM: you demand a vacation.

You want to bond with Jane over something that isn't work or trauma or even sex. You just want to have fun together. You want to see her laughing with the wind in her hair, and you must come back to Boston with a picture of it.

She agrees to use five of her hoarded leave days for a short vacation before you've even discussed where to go.

It should be a neutral destination. Somewhere neither of you has already been, something neither of you is already especially interested in. Neither of you has any particular affinity for the ocean; your suggestion list whittles down to relaxing in the sand and surf.

The main threat to this selection is that Jane doesn't own any swimwear. She recoils at the delight that dawns on your face at the prospect of helping her buy some. You recoil at her explanation that, on rare occasions she _has_ swam in the last several years, she has done so in repurposed athletic wear.

So you also demand a shopping trip, and for once, buying clothes for yourself is not the most fun part.

One-pieces are all she'll consider. The first she likes enough to even let you see is navy with white trim, and it looks fantastic on her, but the whole beach idea goes from a maybe to an okay as soon as you promise she doesn't have to wear it at all if she changes her mind. Still, you've purchased the suit in three colors before she even has her clothes back on, teasing that if she wears the same T-shirt in every color in Boston, she can do the same with swimwear in Florida.

You book the resort suite. Jane insists on getting the airfare, and spends the flight carefully behaving as if this might not be her first time flying first class.

...

The first evening is a sour start, and you worry about it coloring the whole trip for her. Her new surroundings fail to immediately relax her: the accommodations are _too_ fancy, she feels out of place, she didn't sleep right the night before, other people are dressed crazy, the mattress is different, she doesn't know if dinner is sitting well. The way she tosses and turns, you're almost waiting for her to have a nightmare, and she does.

Instead of trying to soothe her back to sleep, you lead her out to the balcony for some fresh air. Tucking yourself alongside her in a single lounge chair, you put your head on her shoulder and massage her hands while she tells you what's on her mind. Although you regret that her troubles have followed her here, you love that she doesn't hide them from you.

She's afraid of her anxiety sabotaging this trip, thinking about how much you're paying and how much she wants it to be perfect for you. You remind her that it's just for unwinding and fun, whatever that may entail - even if TV and room service is all that sounds good to her - therefore, there is nothing to ruin. You hush her apologies and she hugs you tight.

The waves rumble out there in powerful tones that a tiny speaker on her nightstand could never reproduce. It's the same ocean that's seen her through so many other troubled nights, and you wonder whether it comforts her any better in person. For a while you just watch the moonlight glittering on the water, the warmth of her arms insulating you from the night air.

Both of you sleep late the next morning, and from then on, the trip is good.

...

The sand feels good on your toes. You rub SPF on each other and walk in the surf in a sundress and rolled-up pants and sit at the bar drinking out of coconuts.

Jane whistles at you when you change into your swimsuit, but is hesitant to leave the suite in hers. When she confesses to packing shorts just in case, you pull out the ones you packed for her first, and she hugs you hard enough to lift you off your feet. Even with the shorts added, you don't make her do anything more than sit next to you in the most secluded spot you can find while she acclimates. Meanwhile, you smirk at her over the top of your sunglasses while she's busy suspiciously eyeing everyone who comes near.

It didn't occur to you that you've never seen Jane swim. Her strokes in the water are long and graceful, and she can surface with her hair slicked back like a mermaid or flattened over her face like an awkward lagoon creature, depending on whether she wants you to think she's pretty or funny.

A bronze-skinned boy half your age teaches you both how to surf, or tries. Though she professes to only be good at "land sports," Jane is immediately better at it than you are. You splash in the waves like children, playing chicken with the tides and laughing so hard your sides hurt.

You go for a boat ride on which a small child mistakes you for the guide because you know the answers to all of his questions about marine life. When you look at Jane for help, she only raises her hand and asks you what is the difference between a porpoise and a dolphin.

She buys you a lobster dinner and acts horrified when you eat it.

You teach her how to tie a sarong around her waist, and she agrees to go out like that. It's much more flattering than shorts, and clearly you aren't the only one of the opinion that she's the most attractive woman on the beach.

In Boston, usually you're the one getting checked out and flirted with. Here, Jane captures an unusually large share of attention and seems genuinely mystified by it at first, but every day you see her grow a little less self-conscious. You'll never tire of the little flip your heart does each time she takes your hand in an intentional display that she is happily yours. You don't blame people for continuing to look. You make a beautiful pair.

Basking in the sun, Jane gets an Italian tan. Losing track of time beachcombing, you get an Irish sunburn.

Each step reveals more evidence of a fascinating ecosystem washed up by the tide, so you keep taking one more, and one more. Then suddenly the sunlight fails in a circle around you, and you look up to find Jane holding an umbrella over you, looking amused. Without realizing, you've wandered a quarter mile up the beach. She says you're cute and presents you with a toddler's plastic pail and shovel set.

When she comes back from a swim, she gives you a kiss and a sandy handful of two and a half shells like the one she saw you holding. And although you were not really collecting shells, you will be taking those home.

Your little yellow pail and Jane's competitive spirit end up getting you into a playful rivalry with a nearby couple from Michigan about who can build a taller sandcastle. Jane can't pass up a couple of volleyball games on the husband's team, and you and the wife chat and cheer from under your umbrella. Nobody vows to email anybody else when they get home.

You've had good vacations before - relaxing ones, educational ones, romantic ones. But you've never had such a _fun_ one as with your best friend. Each night finds your lungs too full and your bodies too tired for much more than a goodnight kiss before sinking into fluffy white bedding that's like sleep-quicksand.

...

Your eyes follow Jane as she goes and closes up the curtains.

"What are you doing?"

She smiles. "Sun's too bright."

The drawn curtains are still no match for the sun; the darkest the room has gotten is a diffuse shadowy amber, but you like the ambiance. It makes your suite a little cool haven shielded from the brunt of afternoon.

The day is hotter than forecast, and she had suggested ordering some wine and relaxing in the suite until the sun goes down. So you're laying on the bed in your robe, just relaxing and perusing the brochure about the resort's spa services, your fingers twiddling with the pink hibiscus flower that had come on the tray with the wine.

"Hey. I wanna show you something."

You double-take and let the brochure fall out of your hand.

Her robe has disappeared. She's standing there in a black bikini. All tall and dark and long limbs and skin that looks freshly tanned, even the parts she hasn't shown to the sun. You would grin if your jaw were not hanging slack.

"I uh, thought you might like it." She takes a big breath, smiling, almost passing as relaxed. You can tell she's debating striking a pose, at least jokingly, but can't quite find the nerve.

You don't need to point out that this is a surprise, or that it's out of character both in terms of fashion and exposure. Obviously she's seizing the opportunity to take a break from the more self-conscious Jane she is at home, and you're not going to threaten that with scrutiny.

" _Like_ it?" you sit up. "Jane, you are _so-o-o_ gorgeous." It comes out of you wrapped in a weird mischievous laugh.

As always, she tries to shrug off your compliments like an itchy coat, but you can see in the corners of her mouth that she likes feeling attractive. Without response she comes closer and refills both of your glasses. You hadn't noticed until now how much of the bottle is already gone.

"You are," you insist, shaking your head. "I could eat you up."

You rise and kiss her, tucking that flower into her hair to free your hands and then sliding them around her bare waist, taking in the smoothness of her skin.

"Don't bother getting too far away from that bed," she smirks, teeth pulling gently on your bottom lip. "I don't have this on to swim in."

You've seen her in less than this before. She's been getting more comfortable changing in front of you, but this is different than seeing her step into sweatpants in your peripheral vision while talking about how your workday went. This time she means to be looked at, and you wish you had more than two eyes to do it with.

"When did you buy it?"

"Day before we left. I wanted to get something that was only for you to see."

Maybe this explains her anxiety that first night. You had no idea she had anything like this planned.

"Thank you," you say, giving her a kiss that is separate from the rest. "I love it, and I love you."

With an echo she backs you over to the bed and tugs apart your robe sash.

" _This_ is why you wanted us lounging around in robes," you accuse, your lips muffled against hers. "I thought your ordered us a massage."

"I did. I booked us all the spa crap you were looking at... but that's tomorrow."

"You're doing spa crap for me?" you grin, and she traces the dimple in your cheek.

"M-hm. Don't worry though," she smirks, reaching inside your open robe to draw a fingertip from your chest down to your navel. "You're getting a massage today, too... of sorts."

"Can I have a minute first," you ask, sitting on the edge of the bed, just wanting to take her in more than anything else.

You pull her closer, letting your hands hungrily roam all the skin that's been offered to you, and you pull playfully with your teeth at the strip of fabric between her breasts. She reaches behind her back and the material falls away.

Both of you sigh softly when you take her nipple in your mouth, which makes you wonder who is really enjoying it more. The privilege feels all yours, especially when you glance up for the sight of her with head tilted and eyes closed serenely, stroking her fingers through yours in a silent request for more. Privately you always consider this one of Jane's most delightfully feminine moments, and that flower tucked above her ear isn't hurting the image at all.

She slips the robe off your shoulders and tosses it aside. "Lie back."

You obey. If you weren't already wet, the way she pauses to drain her glass of wine without breaking eye contact would've done it.

She dangles her top over your face with a smirk and drops it, covering your eyes. When you reach to move it, she stops your hand. "Not yet."

"What are you doing?" you grin blindly.

"Trying to be sexy," she whispers.

"It's working," you whisper back.

"Good." The bed shifts as she climbs over you.

Whatever five-star massage you thought you were getting, you're thrilled that you aren't. This one has deep kisses, soft moans and knowing laughter, nipples grazing yours, hot and sweet whispers, throat kisses, a greedy mouth at your breasts and hands everywhere.

And suddenly you can see again. She tosses her bikini top on the floor.

"Hi, beautiful," she smiles, brushing her hair out of her face.

"You're... do your hair again," you breathe.

"What?"

"Run your hair back." You push her shoulders, wanting to see her upright, wanting to see as much of her as you can. She brushes her fingers back through her hair, looking at you with a question mark. Amused when it makes you draw a breath, she does it again, grinning, sexier.

She's never been this sensual with you. This feminine. All the times you ever told her she was sexy, she shrugged like she didn't think so.

"You knew all along."

"Knew what?"

"Sexy." Your mouth is too dry and this is as eloquent as you can be right now. "You're sexy. You acted like you didn't know but you _know_."

She smiles, still noncommittal, but seeing the opportunity to push you higher. She flips all her hair to one side, dips and licks up your throat, slow and sensuous. You moan out loud.

"Please." It just slips out. You're readier than you realized.

"Choose your own adventure," she smiles, kissing your chin.

"Mmm.." you consider, and you can't forget what her tongue just felt like. "Mouth."

There could be nothing more glorious than the heat of her mouth melding with the heat of your center. It won't take much, and she knows it. You make no effort at all to be quiet, coming out loud in utter luxury.

Little do you know, that isn't your real treat. Not even the bikini.

It's after you catch your breath and untangle your fingers from her hair. After she comes up and serves you a fresh warm kiss. After she nuzzles and soothes you.

It's when she settles against your thigh - like she always does, now that it's her turn - and you gasp.

Heat. Searing heat against your skin. Your eyes go wide.

She is bare against you.

It's the first time she's ever been completely naked with you. You should tell her this is meaningful or something. All you can do is stare open-mouthed and try to breathe. Encouraged by your reaction, she grins and finds your hands and places them on her waist.

She pushes once against you and you gasp all over again, your hands squeezing in response, holding onto her skin so that even if this is a dream it can't slip away.

Your loss for words seems to feed her confidence. It seems that all you have to do is lie there gaping, rendered stupid by your arousal and surprise. And she exhales your name once, softly, as she begins to grind against you.

"Ja- ane?" you whisper.

"Yeah?"

Skin, bare. So much skin. Hair.. wild and black and tumbling. It's always like that, but you never realized it was so sexy. You don't know how to deal with this.

If you focused hard enough, you wonder if you could divert all your sensory perception into your left thigh.

She laughs at you like you just said something. Did you? Look at her smile. Dazzling. Slightly drunk. A little nervous and a lot aroused.

"You're too beautiful."

"So are you."

"You're wet," you stammer.

"Yeah." She lowers herself flush against you, lips pressing to your chest. "I'm wet for you. I wanted you to know."

You whimper.

The sensation is maddening. Hot and silky against you. So beautiful. Touching you, and yet untouchable. She's designed it this way. Anything more direct would still be too much.

"I'm yours, Maura," she murmurs at your throat. "I wanted you to feel what you do to me that nobody else can."

"Jane-" you whisper, pulling at her so you can move against her at the same time. It's not really your turn right now, but this is too much to bear.

"Do you feel me?"

"You're so hot." You close your eyes, sliding your hands down her lower back. Feeling her muscles move in waves. "You're gonna burn my leg."

"That's yours," she breathes. "You put that heat inside me. It's only for you. Feel me, Maura, I'm yours."

She moves above you like always, but so completely different. This is supposed to be to reveal herself to you, to show you the secret heat that makes her yours, but it's you who feel you're being proudly and willingly branded as hers. Maybe that's why you breathe the same thing back to her.

Your kisses trade the same words back and forth until they're unintelligible hot breaths.

You keep forgetting about your own need, just laying still and taking in every glorious sensation of her having her way with you. Letting her help herself to your throat or your lips or your breasts, the proof of her feelings for you in her urgent moans and the heat smearing your skin. **  
**

Because she's being sexy, you think, she comes the way she does on purpose. Not tucked into your neck, like she needs to hide. This time, she comes like she wants you to see her do it.

Upright. She lets her head tip back, which she never does, and it makes her seem suddenly even more naked. You can see from her chin all the way down to where the shadows of the bedsheets color in her abdominal muscles. And her fingers dig into your skin while you feel and see and hear the pleasure run through her whole body, and hear the most open and unabashed and feminine version of her moans you've ever heard.

You're still staring, glazed with awe when she blinks and smiles at you. Proud and amused and a bit of shyness poking through, biting her lip and looking for your reaction like _I did that for you, did you like it?_

Words fail you. You pull her lips to yours.

Sensitive Jane, you could handle. Your nervous, affectionate, trembling Jane. The one who comes like it's a secret that she even can. You _adore_ that Jane.

But if she can be like this... if this might only have been a taste... you just found out you're the second sexiest person in this relationship. Your self-effacing lovable slob of a girlfriend is an undercover Grecian goddess. And she can melt you. Vaporize you. It's only a matter of how comfortable she is and whether she feels like doing it.

Not for an instant would you _trade_ that Jane for this one, but you do hope she'll visit Boston.

You aren't sure which Jane's hand finishes you, but it is sweet Jane who snuggles into you afterward with an _I can't believe I really did that_ kind of smile.

It's not lost on you that she's just put herself _far_ outside her comfort zone for you, and that it must have taken every bit of her courage and energy. She has earned a safe and soft After to rest in. You wrap the two of you together in the sheets, letting evening fall and any other plans fall with it. None could be as important as holding your precious Jane close and making sure she knows that she is beautiful and loved.

* * *

Soon you have a new contender for your favorite sight: Jane Rizzoli laughing a carefree laugh with the wind blowing in her hair. Half your phone's space is taken up making sure to get a photo of it, and before you've landed in Boston, you've already chosen three that you want framed in the house.

One of just her - the laughing one, which is already your lock screen wallpaper, which you are wasting a lot of battery just opening to grin at. One is of just you with your pail of seashells, pointing at something in a moment Jane insists she finds memorably endearing. Your favorite: a messy selfie of both of you. Objectively, it's a terrible picture. Blurry, oddly framed, washed out; Jane's face is more than half-obscured; you have no makeup on and it's not your greatest angle. But she has an arm linked around your neck and her grinning face nuzzled against your temple in what is obviously the moment immediately after kissing it, and you could hardly look any goofier or more smitten.

If anyone ever asks, "Was Maura Isles ever happy, and did anyone ever love her?" you will have this picture to show them.


	38. Sixteen (x)

**Obligatory A/N where I apologize for not updating in however long**

* * *

A text message rattles your phone on the surgical tray.

"Oh! Will you read that?" you ask, your own hands rather occupied with the process of removing a kidney. "It might be lab results."

"Mmmmnot the lab," Jane peers at your phone. "Somebody named Faye wants to know how life is treating you?"

Something weird happens in your chest, causing you to emit a small and maybe slightly uncomfortable laugh. This text feels like it's crossed universes to get delivered to you in the wrong one.

Faye. You forgot she existed. You forgot the you she's writing to existed.

You could say that's an old friend and you'll answer later, but something about that has a secretive aftertaste. You'd rather go out of your way to be transparent.

"Um, would you reply? Say it's treating me very well, thanks... and that I'm happily in a relationship, and how is she?"

With an arch of her brow, Jane taps out your message while you weigh the kidney.

"Want a smarmy emoji or anything?"

"No, that'll do fine."

Message sent, she puts your phone back on the tray.

"Someone from the past, who's staying there," you answer her unasked question. She shrugs, trying to look uninterested, hands clasped behind her back.

You wonder whether she's not going to ask at all, or just waiting until after work. Even though you're guilty of nothing, you have a feeling this is going to hang over you all day.

"Anyway. The kidneys are enlarged..."

.

"I can't picture you with a woman."

There it is. Finally.

You point, and give a little wave when Jane twists around and finds both of you in the bedroom mirror.

"I mean," she almost laughs, "you've told me a lot about the men you've dated but zip about women. I never saw you with one. Never heard you talk about one you liked. It's always just been this abstract thing to me."

"I never meant to avoid mentioning women.. those relationships just didn't seem substantial enough to mention. They _weren't_ relationships."

"I know."

That's all she says, and you study her face, unsure where else this conversation should go.

"How did you know I was bisexual?" you try, not sure where to point this conversation and hoping some relationship nostalgia will help. "It was never a secret, but I had no reason to volunteer it at work. You're one of very few people who ever guessed."

"Detective," she smiles smugly.

"But, specifically, what? I'm curious."

It spreads into a real grin, all for herself.

"One time you said you thought the Lieutenant was attractive, quote, 'in a male sort of way'."

"... That's it?"

"It was easier to look for little things after that. I always intended to catch you checking out a woman as proof, and then one day I realized, wait, _I'm_ a woman."

You wonder if you're going to blush.

"I hope I never made you feel checked out. I mean, I certainly never... you're exceptionally beautiful, and sometimes I have trouble regulating eye contact when.. what?" you ask, noticing her almost chuckling.

"Safe to say you got away with it," she kisses the side of your head on her way across the bedroom.

You look toward the closet where she's disappeared, wanting to smile more than you actually are.

"I saw her since knowing you." It just leaps out of your mouth. "Once. I haven't spoken to her or thought about her since."

After an agonizingly long few seconds she comes out, pulling on the tank top she intends to sleep in, nodding like unsure why you needed to say that. "Okay."

" _Before_ we were together," you admonish suddenly, in response to no accusation. "I didn't cheat on you."

She smiles, amused.

"You wouldn't cheat on me. And not just 'cause trying to lie would give you leprosy," she replies, choosing some socks and closing the drawer with her hip. "I don't get what part of this is supposed to be a confession."

"I... I don't either," you deflate, rubbing your neck. "I just didn't want it to seem like I was hiding anything."

She sits on one folded leg on the bed, reaching for your hand, and you join her.

"Tell me about her, then. Would I like her?"

You blink.

"You.. might. We met at a toxicology seminar. I saw her.. I don't know, a handful of times in as many years. She was personable but never got personal.. that was a relief. I suppose that's why she was the only one I ever saw more than once."

"She sounds cool."

Hesitant to really agree, you shrug, scratching under your ear.

"I knew you saw people, hon. Why wouldn't you, you were single. Why's this one lady been making you itchy all day?" she asks, not with suspicion, but like helping you figure it out.

The answer is closer to the surface than you expected it to be.

"Maybe it feels a little like cheating because... I don't remember how consciously I realized it at the time, but I obviously wanted a substitute for you. If I'd known I actually had any chance with you I never..."

"You wouldn't?"

You shake your head.

"I don't _regret_ any past relationships. But I find it becoming more and more incomprehensible that I've ever been with anyone but you. I remember the others, but it's so... foreign, now. Me. The version of me who wasn't yours. I had no way of knowing what I was missing then, but I feel like I..." you frown, because this is going to make no sense. "I miss you. Retroactively."

If you were asked to defend that, you couldn't. But somehow it must've been the right thing to say, because she lights up inside, and smiles, instant and real.

"I feel exactly like that."

She takes your hand into her lap, her fingers playing with yours while she thinks.

"Sometimes I think about if I could start life all over. Knowing what I know now." Her face grows from thoughtful to affectionate to misty while she regards all the features of yours. "I'd do whatever it took to find you as soon as I could, and I'd have all my firsts with you and never so much as look at anybody else."

Just when her eyes look about to graduate from misty to brimming, she smiles down at your hands instead. "I think about that a lot. Sometimes you let me forget I'm not sixteen with a clean slate and so happy you're gonna be the one I.."

In your mind you assemble a sixteen-year-old Jane, fresh and brash and gangly and cute on her way to beautiful. Sitting with you at lunch and making you laugh. Pushing curfew to walk you to your door and kiss you goodnight. Holding your hand, innocently, yet also in promise that you'll belong to each other in the deepest of ways.

Smitten, you kiss her cheek.

But. Would she have?

"Jane... do you think you'd have liked me then?"

"How could anyone not?" she asks like you're crazy. "You had to be the most popular kid in school."

The inaccuracy of that statement nearly makes you choke on a laugh.

Really, what you meant is that maybe she wouldn't have looked at you twice if you had met too young. Maybe her life had to unfold the way it did, when it did, in order for her to be able to love you. Maybe she misread your question intentionally.

"You already know I wasn't remotely popular," you shake your head. "People didn't tend to notice me. People like you, anyway."

You remember feeling invisible. Nobody picked you for group projects. Popular girls you'd had classes with for years never seemed to know who you were, or thought you were part of the staff. Even the other seemingly lonely girls showed no interest in forming an alliance with you. School was an education, not a popularity contest, but it stung sometimes.

"People like me?" her brows shoot up. "What does that mean?"

"You know," you shrug. "Cool kids. You must have been the coolest girl in your school."

The coolest girl in yours was Nicole Sanders. You remember her signing the yearbook of every single other girl at your classroom, and the feeling in your stomach when she finished with the girl right before you, and then just.. left. That was the closest you came to crying at school since you were much, much younger. Nicole wasn't a mean girl at all - she would have signed yours, if she had seen you.

You wonder why a cool girl can see you now. If she would've then.

"Not _quite_ my title," Jane laughs. "I was embarrassed in front of girls like you."

"What?" you blink. "About what? What kind of girls?"

"Perfect. Rich. A+ on everything."

"You'd think I was a snob?"

"No. I'd feel like riffraff." She looks at your surprised face. "You don't know how it is to feel dumb or poor in front of somebody." She doesn't say that like an accusation, but like realizing you haven't seen a movie she's referencing.

"You were not riffraff. You could not ever have been dumb, and if your family was financially limited it certainly was no reflection on your character."

She makes a patient face.

"When another girl knows the answer every time she gets called on, you don't want her to know you don't know too. When the girl next to you's wearing expensive clothes and you gotta hold your arms weird so two inches of your wrist aren't sticking out because you've been wearing the same coat every..." she shakes her head. "You just don't go up and talk to the perfect girl when you feel so.. not perfect. You kind of feel relieved if she doesn't even notice you."

You wrap your arm around hers, thinking. This wouldn't explain the way _everyone_ treated you, but maybe you could have read a few of your classmates wrong.

Looking up into sparkling dark eyes, you realize maybe you're not the only one who needed to be seen by a certain kind of girl.

"I think you're perfect. You're the coolest girl in my school."

She smiles. "I think you're perfect, and you're the most popular girl in mine." She pulls you by the jaw with one finger and kisses you. "Tomorrow's Saturday. Let's be sixteen. Will you go out with me?"

You grin. "Totally."

 _"Yesss,"_ she pumps a fist. "I gotta ask my mom if she can drive us."

You laugh. She turns out the light so the next kiss can last as long as it wants.

* * *

Tonight has been fun.

Before you left the house, Jane asked to see your yearbook. From the way you wouldn't let her hold it, she expected your picture to be embarrassing, which might have been why she went on and on about how cute you were. Actually you were just hoping to control which pages showed when you flipped through, still self-conscious after all these years about how many are as pristine as the day you received it.

You didn't ask to see hers because you're already familiar with her senior picture (her mother has it framed in two places, and you got a copy from her ages ago) and you already know hers must be overflowing with notes from friends squeezed sideways in every margin, and you aren't jealous, but you could do without the visual comparison.

She took you to her old neighborhood. To the batting cages where she let you try to hit a few balls, but watching her was more fun. She bought you an ice cream cone and you walked around and she pointed out her school and the basketball court and her favorite tree to climb. It seemed to impress her when you took off your shoes and climbed it. She wanted to carve your initials up there and but instead sat fairly patiently through your explanation of the phloem and xylem and the potential damage to the vascular tissues. In the end, she settled for writing your initials on a leaf.

At the movies you ate smuggled candy and kissed in the back row when it was boring, which was most of it, until you wanted to finish each other and not the movie, so you left.

Half your clothes are off by the time you reach the bedroom, where you kiss her on top and without asking. You've been practicing that again. She's gotten pretty good. You love to be beneath her, but having her beneath you is spectacular in a whole different way. It gives you the distinct urge to unwrap her. The longing to have her trust you and be vulnerable and let you kiss her throat and see all of her skin and please her in every way you know.

She slips a hand down and you hum happily into her lips. Like her in you is the natural state of things.

You would like to be in her. So much. _So much._ You won't tell her that, but you do tell yourself you don't have to feel bad for thinking it.

Even from the less familiar position, she knows just what to do for you. When it gets to be too much at the end, she pulls you to relax on top of her, playing with your hair like she isn't counting the seconds.

"Your turn?" you purr.

You forgot she still had her pants and shoes on, but in a moment she fixes that. You expect her to replace them with pajamas, but instead she just gets back under the sheet next to you.

One hand reaches for the lamp, but stops short. She turns back to you. "My turn."

You reach under the sheet like always. Just as your fingertips pass over the band of her panties, her hand stops yours. Guides it back up, and makes your fingers dip underneath the band instead.

Dopamine dumps into your bloodstream and you can trace its tidal wave go all the way to your extremities. She's going to let you touch her. Actively. With your hands.

You glance up to her face to make sure, and she smirks at how excited you're trying not to look. Nothing is good enough to say, so you just kiss her.

As soon as you start to slide your hand in, hers flies to stop it again.

"Sorry," she swallows, pulling back from your kiss. "I'm sorry to be like this. I need to hear - I completely already know, I just need to hear..."

"I won't, darling," you interrupt, and you can see her loving you for not making her say any more. "I promise. Not tonight, not ever." You kiss her forehead and see good tears in her lashes. "Okay?"

She nods, taking a deep breath.

Because you expected it, you don't yank away when she flinches at your first touch, grabbing your wrist yet again. She tries to be embarrassed, but you won't allow it. You kiss her mouth, gentle but full-on.

Touching her skin is everything you expected and yet even lovelier than you imagined.

"You're so soft," you grin, nuzzling her cheek. Melting. "Oh, Jane. You're wet."

"For you." She tucks her face against the side of yours.

"It's so beautiful to feel it."

She never does let go of your wrist. It doesn't bother you. She never does fully relax. It doesn't surprise you.

Open to you like this, guard down as far as it's ever been, it's no wonder. A different time can be about trying to please her. This time is maybe just about proving that her trust is well-placed.

She tenses at where your fingertips pause, grip tightening and big eyes going to yours. You know what she's thinking. One little motion and you honestly could change the rest of her life. She would never trust again. Not you. Not anyone. It'd be terrifyingly easy.

"Never," you murmur, kissing her cheek and her nose and her brow. Circling her slowly, lightly. "I love you so much."

You kiss her while your fingertips wander reverently through the slick heat that is a secret to everyone but you. She's not saying much - half loving it and half stressed. So you don't spend too long indulging the first half before relieving the second.

You offer to do it like you always do it, and she nods eagerly, apologetically.

Immediately your hand goes back outside the fabric. And immediately she lets go of your wrist and brings your mouth to hers, nearly pulling you off balance with both hands at the back of your head.

"I love you. Maura?" Both hands at the back of your head, kissing you with a fervor that you can only guess comes from safety. From the fact that the scary part is over and nothing bad happened and it's now okay to have liked it.

You whisper back, massaging at her underwear, and she comes in your hand in ten seconds. Sweet and bashful and beautiful.

"I knew," she sighs, eyes wet and heavy-lidded as you drop little cool-down, little thank-you, little i-love-you kisses on her face.

"Knew what?"

"It'd be safe." She nestles into you, kissing your chest, and you pull her close. "You're always safe."

* * *

Jane is on the foot of the bed, still in just panties, with your yearbook propped open on one knee.

You close your eyes again. Half because they feel dry and the morning is so bright. Half because maybe she wants you to be asleep.

Next thing you know, you did really doze off, and now the shower is running.

You sit up. Your yearbook is on the bed and it smells like Sharpie. It takes some flipping to find what's different. Confident black letters take up a whole page.

 **\- (Maura!) -** Your name has a circle around it, and little lines poking out like a sun.

 **My sunshine girl. You are like if sunshine was a person.** And a long explanatory arrow crawls out the side of this paragraph to point up to the sun around your name.

Your teenage heart does a backflip.

 **I'm super glad I got to meet you. I have so much fun with you, I wish we sat together all day - - then again you're too cute and I wouldn't get much work done.**

 **I like your brain. You're a genius and you know everything and you do everything perfect. I like your face. (and other stuff) You're the prettiest girl I ever saw.**

 **But I love your heart. It's what I first noticed about you.** **You're the nicest person to everyone. You're good to people who aren't good to you, and you help people who have nothing to give you back.**

 **I never told you this but I'm pretty sure I saw you first. You were brand new. I came in while you were working, and you didn't realize.** **It was a homeless guy on your table. The kind of weathered old guy people probably treated like dirt. And you were talking to him, even though he couldn't hear you. But I heard you. You were so kind and gentle and respectful I thought maybe you knew him. But you didn't. You're just like that.**

 **I thought about you at home. About what kind of heart it must take to be like that, and how maybe there was room in it for somebody like me too.**

 **We met later on but I already knew what kind of person you were.**

You think of her asleep on your office couch. One of the most guarded people you'd ever encountered, barely your acquaintance, and you were where she came to rest. It never made sense.

 **You're gonna go really far in life and I'll be behind you every step of the way. I don't think I could be prouder of anybody.** **You're my best friend ever and I love you tons**

 **XOXOXO Jane Rizzoli**

 **PS let's hang out every day forever**


End file.
